


The Personal Diary of one Laurent, Son of Miriel (an account of making friends)

by Gyldowen_Writes



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Arguing, Attempt at Humor, Background Relationships, Canon-Typical Henry, Canon-Typical Owain, Canon-Typical Violence, Chores, Dancing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Father-Son Relationship, Friendship, Laurent gets roasted, Mommy Issues, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV First Person, Shopping, Slow Burn, Some angst, Tsundere Severa, animal death tw, awkward boys, blood tw, both Brady and Laurent are good boys and they deserve more love, but Laurent can have a little pining. As a treat., if that's a thing, reading someone's diary, slight body shaming, this doesn't really focus on romance, tw's for chapter 3 only
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:33:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24986878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gyldowen_Writes/pseuds/Gyldowen_Writes
Summary: The personal diary of Laurent as he tries to balance fighting a war, saving the future, and making friends.
Relationships: Azur | Inigo & Loran | Laurent, Brady & Loran | Laurent, Degel | Kjelle & Loran | Laurent, Eudes | Owain & Loran | Laurent, Gerome/Loran | Laurent, Henry & Loran | Laurent, Serena | Severa & Loran | Laurent, Sort | Stahl & Loran | Laurent
Comments: 6
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is based on my play-through of the game with the Gay Awakenings mod by UnassumingVenusuar. There is not really an overarching plot and it's kinda episodic. Each chapter focuses on how Laurent becomes friends with one of the other characters. 
> 
> Enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Volume I: Brady  
> Laurent receives a strange request for help finding a book.

The 18th of June, year 2611 (Day 1,881 in the Past)

Dear Diary,

While today marked nothing noteworthy in our quest to prevent the horrible future from whence we came, it did mark one of the more bizarre interactions I have had with the others that journeyed to the past with me. Even as I am writing this to you, dear diary, I am still confused as to the ramifications of this exchange. It is my hope that recounting this event to you will bring clarity to myself.

It all started rather innocently this afternoon, underneath one of the oak trees outside of the barracks. The afternoon was mild enough that reclining in the shade was vastly preferable to sitting at my cramped desk in my stifling room. So, there I sat against the trunk in the shade, peacefully updating my ledger with the army’s current stores of wyvern food and pegasus oats. Tomorrow I will present my ledger to Gerome and inform him of the army’s status. I must confess diary; I find myself looking forward to these reports. While in our own time I rarely spoke to Gerome, now I find his company enjoyable, for he is one of the few of our companions that seems to take this mission as seriously as I.

It was during my musings as to if Gerome would enjoy receiving my reports over tea when a gruff voice called my name.

“Laurent?”

I am somewhat ashamed to say that I was startled by the sudden proximity of said voice, jolting where I sat and nearly dropping my quill. My surprise only increased when I located the owner of the voice.

Brady, of all people, stood slightly to my left, brow furrowed (as usual), back hunched (as usual), and hands buried in his robes (as usual). In fact, the only unusual thing about him – besides talking to me of course – was the way he kicked nervously at one of the tree’s roots that breached the grass. Now diary, Brady and I were by no means on unpleasant terms, not at all. While he is rather uncouth and crass, I prefer his rough demeanor to the ludicrous shouting of ridiculous “heroic phrases” that constantly streamed out of his younger brother Owain. In fact, I owe Brady a debt for healing me when an arrow grazed my side before I could cast my Elfire spell at the archer a fortnight ago. Thus, I wracked my brain for any reason why Brady would seek me out, let alone why he seemed so anxious to speak with me.

Brady let out a slight cough, reminding me that I had just been staring blankly at him for the past several seconds. Realizing my social blunder, I cleared my throat and gave him a cordial smile.

“Ah Brady. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Brady gave one final kick to the root before muttering, “I need help findin’ a book.”

My smile turned more genuine now that I understood the reason behind this interaction. I gently closed my ledger and stowed my quill and ink in my satchel before dusting off my hat, placing it on my head as I rose from the ground.

“I would be happy to assist you in your search,” I said, gesturing for him to follow me towards the library. “Though perhaps your search would be expedited if you solicited the aid of my mother –”

“No!” Brady exclaimed, interrupting me. I stopped in my tracks and turned to him, shock written clearly on my face from his outburst.

Brady looked away sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh…what I mean t’ say is…well I’d prefer it if this jus’ stayed between you n’ me.”

I could not help an eyebrow from arching at his admission. Diary, you must understand my curiosity. What book could Brady be seeking that he did not want my mother or anyone else to know about? Well I obviously could not let this mystery go uninvestigated, so I mentally and physically shrugged off the implications and began striding towards the library once again.

“All right,” I acquiesced over my shoulder, “We will not go to my mother if it pleases you.”

Brady sighed in relief and trotted to catch up with me.

I waited until we had stepped past the library’s large double doors before curiosity got the better of me. “So, what manner of book are you seeking?” I asked as I began perusing the immaculately organized shelves (thanks to my mother’s and my efforts).

Brady’s anxiousness from before returned in force. He opened and closed his mouth a few times before summoning up the courage to speak. “Well Ma’s always gettin’ on my back about how I talk n’ all, so I wanted t’ find a book that would help me brush up on speakin’ all fancy-like…” Brady trailed off, cheeks flushed with embarrassment now that he had disclosed his secret.

Understanding washed over me like a wave as I began nodding. I felt an odd sense of empathy towards the gruff healer. It must have been this feeling of camaraderie that prompted a rueful smile to slide across my face.

“It seems that I am not the only son trying to meet his mother’s lofty expectations.”

My words surprised myself as much as they did Brady. How could I have let slip such vulnerable information about my delicate personal relationship with my mother? I must have spent too much time in the sun, for it seemed to have addled my brain.

Although… Father always taught me that a conversation was a give and take of information. I guess Brady had bared his insecurities slightly by coming to me with this request, it seemed only right to reciprocate with a peek at mine. Looking at how Mother always spouts information at people without really listening to them, I can understand the motive behind Father’s insistence that I learn how to truly listen with the intent of understanding when speaking with others. Father may worry that I am an exact replica of my mother and he had little impact on my character, but this lesson has always stuck with me.

Brady let my confession hang in the air while he squinted at me as if trying to read very small print from very far away, brow even more deeply furrowed (how was that even possible?). After a beat, he shrugged and chuckled.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

I turned back to the shelves quickly to hide my blushing cheeks (blast my pale complexion) and began searching for the appropriate books.

“Well if your aim is to elevate your vernacular, books on grammar would be the safest bet. In addition to dictionaries and thesauruses of course,” I explained as I plucked the appropriate tomes from their homes. Brady trailed after me like a lost duckling. Diary, the way he followed me with wide eyes as if we were in a dark and dangerous forest might have been endearing if it weren’t so terribly awkward. To put a stop to his uncomfortable following, I sat him at one of the large polished desks and placed the books in front him. “Try these out and if they aren’t what you were thinking I can see what else I can come up with,” I instructed.

“Thanks,” he muttered, though not ungratefully.

Brady and I stared at each other for a couple seconds before I realized that he probably wouldn’t appreciate me just standing over him while he read, so I sat across from him and pulled out my ledger, intent on finishing my report for Gerome. Upon seeing that I was otherwise occupied, Brady pulled one of the grammar primers closer and tentatively cracked open the cover.

There we sat in companionable silence, broken only by the scratch of my quill and the rusting of the pages Brady turned. However, as the minutes ticked by, Brady let out little grunts of confusion and seemed to hunch closer and closer to the book until his nose practically brushed the pages. While I thought that his posture did nothing to increase his comprehension of the material, I kept these thoughts to myself, only stealing occasional glances at him over the rim of my glasses. I will justify this behavior to you, dear diary, as my mere curiosity to see if Brady would actually plant his entire face in the book and absorb the information through osmosis, nothing more.

Much to my disappointment, Brady did not in fact dive head-first into his book, but rather snapped it shut and reached for another tome. Although I winced at such rough treatment of a library book, I minded my own business and went back to filling out my ledger, hoping that Brady would have better luck with this next primer.

Unfortunately for everyone involved – including the book – Brady had no better luck with this tome than the other one. He shuffled through the pages quickly, eyes desperately scanning the pages for something familiar that he could latch on to. Eventually he gave up and plucked another book from the pile. This time he opened to a random chapter and started reading aloud:

“ _A dependent marker word is a word added to the beginning of an independent clause that makes it into a dependent clause._ Huh? _An independent marker word is a connecting word used at the beginning of an independent clause._ What in the…? _When the second independent clause in a sentence has an independent marker word, a semicolon is needed before the independent marker word._ Naga’s breath, is this even Ylissian?!”

Brady looked up at me from the page despondently, tears welling in the corners of his eyes. Now diary, I had never before seen a grown man cry over grammar and I sure as pegasus droppings (pardon my profanity) was not going to start today.

“Uh…right,” I started, hastily jumping up from my chair. “Well let me see if I can find something more…um… something that focuses more on the fundamentals!” I exclaimed before scurrying back between the shelves, leaving Brady to hopefully calm down a little.

I scanned the stacks of books, one careful finger trailing along the spines, trying to find a suitable one for Brady. Now I must confess, grammatical rules have never been my strong suit, but it seemed that poor Brady was nearly hopeless. I almost gave up when I reminded myself of Brady’s motive for this entire endeavor. He wanted to impress his mother. You, dear diary, know better than anyone how intimately acquainted I am with the desire to earn a mother’s adulations. I cannot count the number of times I worked myself to the bone to master a spell so that Mother would praise me and, when I was younger, pat me on the head. Mirabelle is a formidable woman, akin to my own mother, so I can understand Brady’s position quite well. With this thought I redoubled my efforts to try and locate the perfect tome for Brady.

Three shelves later my finger stopped on one particular spine before the rest of me even registered it. My eyes flited over the title before I plucked it from the shelves.

“Proper Diction: A Beginner’s Guide,” I quietly read to myself.

I cracked open the cover and leafed through a few of the pages. While it was a primer on grammar, the whole thing seemed to be at bit…childish. While I knew Brady was boorish and unrefined, I also knew he was no idiot and I did not want to insult his intelligence. I was about to return the book to its place when I remembered the almost pitiful look Brady had given me. Well it was at least worth trying out wasn’t it? If Brady took offence at the juvenile way it was written I could always resume my search. With this decision made I tucked the tome under my arm and returned to our desk.

I found Brady right where I had left him with his face on the desk and his arms shielding himself.

“Brady?” I called as gently as I could manage. I took the grunt in response as permission to continue. “I have a new book here for you to try out. It is a little… well I’ll let it speak for itself.” And I placed the book in front of him.

Brady lifted his head and scanned the cover with decidedly tear-less eyes (thank the gods). “Proper Diction: A Beginner’s Guide?”

I just shrugged and returned to my ledger.

Several minutes of reading passed before Brady lifted his head. “Horse’s apples, Laurent! This book’s exactly wha’ the doctor ordered,” Brady beamed.

I do not think I had ever seen him smile so, and I could not help but return it in kind. “I am glad you find it suitable,” I said, “And I am glad I could be of service. I suggest you go speak to the librarian about borrowing it before she asks us to leave. If we hurry, we can still make it in time for supper.”

Brady’s head shot up. “Wha? Is it that late already? We’d better make like an ox ‘n cart ‘n haul outta here!”

While that was not exactly how I would have phrased it, I did share the sentiment, so I packed up my completed ledger and headed towards the dining hall. Although the tables were mostly empty with a few stragglers finishing up their meals, I was able to get a hot plate of food and a table by myself to eat at. I was halfway through my dinner when Brady plopped down next to me with his own meal.

“Greetings,” I said before turning back to my food. “Were you able to borrow the book?”

“Heck yeah!” Brady nearly shouted in his enthusiasm. “The librarian said I could have it for as long as I wanna. For some reason not many people been checkin’ it out.”

Then he sighed and looked me straight in the eye. “Hey, Laurent, I wanna say thanks for helpin’ me today. To be honest with ya, I was a little nervous comin’ to you for help ‘cause I thought you were too much of a smarty-pants and would make fun of me. But instead you were really nice and didn’t poke fun at me at all. So, yeah, thanks for that.”

I stared back at Brady slightly dumbfounded by such a heartfelt expression of gratitude. I could not even blame him for calling me a “smarty-pants” for I know I can come off a little aloof with my other time-traveling companions (and I wonder where I inherited _that_ trait from). 

I smiled at Brady. “’Tis no trouble really. As I might have mentioned before, I may have been in your situation once or twice in my lifetime.”

Brady’s face split into a toothy grin and for the first time, he looked less like a thug and more like the Brady I vaguely remember growing up with.

So as you can see diary, my day took an unexpected turn this afternoon. Now that I’ve recounted the day’s events on paper, I can see them a bit more clearly. Despite the unprecedented vulnerability and awkward near-crying, in the end the day resulted in a rather positive outcome. I might have made – dare I say – a new friend.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Volume II: Kjelle   
> Laurent is rudely awakened and has to make amends.

The 7th of July, year 2611 (Day 1,900 in the Past)

Dear Diary,

Blast that hard-headed woman! I can not believe the sheer _audacity_ of her. The gall! The nerve! Who does she think she is? Who does she think _I_ am? Now, normally I try to refrain from speaking ill of my compatriots – for who amongst us has not faced their own share of horrors and tragedy in that bleak future that we are all trying desperately to prevent? – but after that blatant display of gross disrespect, I feel that these harsh words are warranted (and not nearly as profane as the words I used in my head throughout the whole encounter). I am so incensed that I cannot stay my hand from shaking the quill as I write this to you dear diary. Let me pause and breathe before this entire page becomes illegible.

.

.

.

There.

Now that I do not threaten to snap my quill in half, let me regale you with the gods-awful morning that I just had.

I thought that my morning would start in the same manner as all my previous mornings this past fortnight or so on the road. As you recall, the Shepherds have been camped a quarter mile or so from a small village near the border with Ferox. Yesterday, most of the Original Shepherds left camp to quell various groups of Risen in the area and were not expected to return for a few days, leaving us New Generation Shepherds to defend the village, gather information, and restock supplies.

With this in mind, I was looking forward to using this morning as an opportunity to indulge in one of my few guilty pleasures: sleeping in, an (unfortunately) rare occurrence. Between managing the Treasury, compiling my reports for Gerome, and researching potential magical advantages for battle, not to mention actual battles, I habitually retire quite late in the evening after updating you, dearest diary, on my day. Therefore I believe that it is not entirely selfish of me wish to enjoy a few hours of blissful slumber after the sun has breached the horizon.

Or at least I imagine those hours of sleep would have been blissful if someone hadn’t stormed into my tent at the very break of dawn.

“LAURENT!”

I was jarred from my sleep, scrambling instinctively for the Elfire tome I keep beside my bedroll in case of emergencies. A sound of alarmed befuddlement was all I could manage before the voice came again.

“Oh good, you’re finally awake. I’ve been calling your name for the past few minutes,” the intruder said in a tone that had no right being that loud so early in the morning.

In the dim, grey light of dawn, I could barely make out a fuzzy figure standing just within the mouth of my tent. I decided that my sight would better suit this situation than a fireball, so I opted to pluck my glasses up instead of my tome. Once my glasses were perched on my nose, I blinked owlishly. Now I could make out a broad frame…strong shoulders…short, strawberry-blonde hair…and –

“Kjelle?”

“Yup, that’s my name. Now get up!” the woman in question barked.

I threw off my blankets and reached for my boots. “Alright, are we under attack?” I questioned, pulling one on.

“No,” came the reply.

I paused. “Is the village under attack?”

“No.”

I let my boot fall from my fingers. “Is there _any_ sort of danger?” I asked, trying to keep my voice even.

“No,” she stated for the third time.

Now that the initial shock had worn off and there appeared to be no immediate danger, I could feel my irritation rising akin to steam in a kettle.

“Then could you kindly explain,” I gritted out between clenched teeth, “what in Naga’s name you are doing _in my tent_!”

If my little outburst fazed her, it did not show on her face. “Training,” she said simply, as if there need be no further explanation.

“Training,” I repeated. “What training?”

“My training.” Kjelle elaborated, if you could even call it that. Seeing my blank look, she continued. “So, well, I was talking with Lucina and I decided that the rest of you could use some more strength training so that you’re not all a bunch of weaklings. Since we don’t have a lot going on today, I thought we could get started now.”

For the sake of politeness, I ignored the “weakling” comment and tried to get to the heart of the matter. “So Lucina has ordered you to train us? Why wasn’t I notified of this?”

“Well…” Kjelle’s eyes slid to the side, “no. Lucina didn’t exactly order this training…”

“Thus what you are saying is that this is not mandatory.” I squinted at her.

“Not _mandatory_ , per say…” she shrugged.

“Then allow me to elaborate. If the training is not ordered by Lucina and not mandatory,” I began in a clipped tone, “then logic would dictate that this training is, in fact, optional. Thus, if that is the case, then I politely decline. I have far too much on my plate to be wasting precious time on nonsense such as this. Now would you please exit my tent so I may return to sleep? I may yet be able to salvage this morning.” I crossed my arms and stared defiantly at her, signaling the end to this inane conversation.

Kjelle stared right back, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. Now diary, I will admit that I might have been a tad curt with her, but what could she expect barging into my tent as she did? From the look of her, it was apparent she was not expecting any resistance.

After a moment, she seemed to find her voice and her silent surprise melted into hot incredulity. “But you’re one of the ones who needs strength training the most!” she exclaimed.

“Excuse me?” I could hardly believe my ears. How rude!

“Don’t ‘excuse me’ me, mister. If I wanted to, I could come over there and break your skinny little bean-pole arms in half without breaking a sweat.” She snapped, arms crossing and chin jutting out.

An involuntary shudder raced down my spine at that gruesome (though not unrealistic) mental image. It is true diary, that Kjelle is one of the strongest in our company in terms of raw strength, perhaps only second to Lucina. I did not for a second doubt her ability to do as she had described, for I had seen her enough in battle to be thankful that I have never been on the business-end of her spear. However, I am not totally defenseless and without means of protecting myself.

“As if,” I scoffed, “I would even let you get near me with such an intent without burning you to a crisp with a fireball.” I raised my eyebrows at her, confident in my victory.

Kjelle frowned and adopted a more aggressive stance, fists clenched at her sides. “Yeah, well, what if you run out of spells? Then you’re just a lanky sitting duck in the middle of a battlefield waiting to get skewered by any half-wit with a sword,” she debated. 

“Other mages might be foolish enough to run out of spells,” I countered, “but I carry at least two battle tomes of fire or wind with me at all times. Three or more if we’re in an actual battle. There is absolutely no conceivable possibility of me running out of spells.”

“Well you still need this training because you’re still a weakling!” she shouted.

“I beg to differ!”

“Then beg!”

I threw my hands up in frustration. “I am not coming to your asinine training and that is final. Now leave my tent immediately before I blast you out of here with a wind spell!”

With that, I turned back to my bedroll, intent on trying to relax for whatever time remained before breakfast.

It was during these thoughts of breakfast when I felt my world turn off-kilter. Strong arms grabbed my waist and hoisted me over a broad shoulder with what I assure you diary was not an undignified yelp from me. It took me a second to reorient myself and realize that despite my height advantage, Kjelle had picked me up and was marching me out of my tent.

“Kjelle!” I squawked, embarrassment burning hot on my face and indignity smoldering in my chest. “Put me down!” I demanded, trying to squirm my way out of her grasp, but that was as fruitless as trying to pry my way out of iron bars.

“No, Laurent, not until you agree to come with me.” She grunted. “You’re participating in this training one way or another.”

Now diary, I am not proud of what I did next, but desperate times call for desperate measures and all that. I took my left (admittedly bony) elbow and jabbed it in the general area of her spleen.

My attack had the desired effect and we both tumbled to the ground. I rapidly got my feet back under me and dashed barefoot towards the tree line of the forest, leaving Kjelle gasping in the grass.

Once I was certain that she did not intend to pursue me, I stomped back here to my tent, which is when I started recounting this terrible affair to you, dearest diary.

Can you believe it? I do not think I have been so verbally abused and then humiliated since I was a young boy and Severa was so mean to me that I started crying in front of everyone. And the worst part of all is that I thought Kjelle and I were on good terms before all of this. We had never been close friends by any means, but I always admired her steadfast resolve to become stronger and protect the ones she loves. All our previous interactions had been pleasant and cordial, if not a little stiff. But I have no inkling what any of that was, from either of us. In addition to the shame of having my body insulted and being thrown around like a sack of potatoes, I am deeply ashamed of how I reacted. I could have used less…antagonistic words and I definitely should not have hit her. I should have been the more mature adult, but it seems she brought out the worst in me in that instant. 

So here I sit, diary, in my disheveled bedroll, feeling sick to my stomach with emotions I cannot begin to fully parse out. Hopefully, I can relax enough to go retrieve my breakfast. With any luck, I can go about the rest of the day without any further altercations.

* * *

Hello again diary. I am writing to you as the sun sets, thus signaling the end of this irksome day. It would please me to no end to be able to recount how despite my detestable morning, the day in fact was an enjoyable one. I would love to, but I am no liar, and my day was mercurial at best. Allow me to explain.

Following an unmemorable breakfast, I passed the morning updating the Treasury accounts – factoring in the new supplies we purchased the day before – and tending to my horse, Rexcalibur. I am grateful that I inherited Father’s affinity for horses instead of Mother’s lack thereof. I took comfort in recounting the events of the morning to him as I brushed his silky black coat, even if I could feel his judgmental side-long glances when I told him of how I escaped Kjelle’s clutches. Still, it feels nice to, on occasion, bare one’s troubles to another living soul (especially if that living soul cannot interrupt with distracting comments). At the end of my sorry tale, Rexcalibur nudged my shoulder in a friendly gesture, thus lifting a small weight from what felt like many stones residing in my chest.

Lunch was a solitary affair. I assumed that all the others in camp had either been impressed into Kjelle’s alleged “training” or were making themselves scarce to avoid such a fate.

Considering that I had completed most of my errands already, I decided to spend the afternoon reading. I gathered a book that Mother had lent me on the theory behind practical enchantments and set off into the forest to find a tranquil spot to read.

After wandering peacefully for a time, I came across a small hill that overlooked a meadow. Although I wished to avoid the meadow for fear of aggravating my allergies, I thought the crest of the hill would make a marvelous reading spot. I traversed up the hill, glad that I had left my customary robes behind for a light tunic and trousers better suited for the bright summer weather. I could feel my excitement for delving into practical applications of fire enchantments building the closer I came to the top of the hill.

Once I crested the hill and surveyed my surroundings, however, I began to reevaluate my choice of location.

From my vantage point on the hill, I could see that a dozen yards in the meadow below stood Kjelle and a gaggle of our compatriots. Curious as to what she considered “strength training”, I watched on as Kjelle tightened an improvised rope harness around Morgan’s shoulders. When she stepped away from her brother, I could see that several stones were attached to the harness, weighing it down. Upon further inspection, it seemed that all the others bore harnesses so similarly burdened. These contraptions piqued my interest and I resolved to stay and watch how they factored into whatever Kjelle had planned.

“Alright, now that you are all ready,” Kjelle’s authoritative voice drifted faintly up to me, “We will be running across this meadow and back three time before we start adding more weight.” She gestured to a rather large pile of stones off to her right.

Her announcement was met with a chorus of groans from the others, but after she fixed them with a glare, they all chanted, “Yes, ma’am.”

I could feel my eyebrows raise in bewilderment. The task that Kjelle had just described seemed nearly impossible under any circumstances, even more so if they had been completing similar tasks all day. I was intrigued to see if any of them would make it.

“Now remember,” Kjelle continued, “this is not a race and there is no first prize. However, if I see you dragging your feet on purpose, I will just make you run extra laps.”

“Yes, ma’am,” came the tired reply.

Kjelle nodded, seemingly satisfied with the response. “And with that…get set…BEGIN!” She shouted and everyone took off running.

“For the honor of Ylisse!” Morgan cried as he sprinted after his sister and Lucina who lead the pack.

Owain charged after them, yelling, “Away sword hand! Away!” or something equally stupid.

“Wait for me guys!” Cynthia called before tumbling over something. Brady and Yarne helped her to her feet before continuing to run across the meadow.

Inigo (who at some point in the day had taken off his shirt) loped along at a leisurely jog. This is, until Noire ran up beside him and leaned in close to whisper something. Diary, I could not hear what she said, but whatever it was caused Inigo to yelp and dash away, Noire chasing at his heels.

Nah made it about forty paces before giving up and transforming into her dragon form. While I admired her ingenuity, Kjelle apparently did not, for she yelled at the poor girl until she transformed back and continued running as normal.

Severa trailed behind everyone, clearly irritated with the entire situation.

I watched on, chuckling at the antics of my fellow time-travelers when another runner caught my eye. Diary, you would never guess who had joined the others, for I scarcely believe it myself. Gerome – still in his mask – ran along at a steady pace, strong arms pumping while he bounded trough the colorful blooms in great strides. I will blame my staring at my utter surprise at seeing him participating in such an activity (perhaps he had finally taken my advice to interact more with the others), but I have no such justification for why the sight made my heart pound and a flush traverse my cheeks.

I shook my head to clear my mind of such untoward feelings, which made me realize one very important fact. If Gerome was included, that meant that all the New Generation Shepherds were currently racing across the meadow. That is, all the New Generation Shepherds…except for me.

Suddenly, I felt my good humor crack and shatter like glass, leaving only the festering loneliness that lives in my heart. My blood turned to ice and my limbs went numb as my mind was transported one thousand, nine hundred days into past. Transported to the day I fell into this gods-forsaken era, five years too early and horribly alone. I felt the despair from the moment I realized my plight wash over me anew, just as it had that bleak day. Only in this instance, the space-time continuum was not what alienated me from the others, but myself. This was my own doing, my current loneliness my own fault. That fact pierced though me unlike anything else.

Despondent, I turned my back on the others as they ran back to the start.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a haze. I was so enveloped by my inner turmoil that I do not remember where I went, or what I did, just that I ended up back at camp just in time for dinner. I took my soup, whispering a soft thanks to the cook before settling down under a tree instead of sitting at the bench. I must have been so enraptured by stirring listlessly at my soup that I did not register the others’ return to camp until Morgan plopped down besides me with his own bowl.

“Hiya Laurent!” he beamed.

“Good evening, Morgan,” I greeted softly, looking up from my meal to his ruddy face and disheveled clothes. “Are you alright?” I asked, concerned.

“Yeah,” he nodded, “I’m fine. It’s just that Kjelle made us do pull ups with armor on and now it feels like my arms are about to fall off! But it’s ok, that just means I’m getting stronger, right?” He smiled at me before tucking into his dinner, wincing as he moved his arms.

His optimism was as infectious as always, however, I was still worried. Of all the people who I journeyed with back in time to save our futures, Morgan was the one I considered to be the nearest thing I had to a close friend. (Sadly, I think my closest friend is you, dear diary, and does that not speak _volumes_ to my character?)

“Still is there anything I can do to assist?” I queried.

“Not unless you spent the whole day mastering healing magic,” Morgan joked between mouthfuls of stew.

I couldn’t help but smile. “I apologize, for I did not. The healing discipline of the magical arts has always eluded my comprehension.”

Morgan giggled. “That’s alright. I’m sure Brady will help us all once he’s able to move again.”

We both looked over at the man in question, who was at the moment lying face-down in the grass, immobile. Nah went over to his limp form, crouching down and poking gently at his shoulder. Brady roused enough to wave her away without once lifting his head. Nah shrugged and left, only to return with a bowl of stew for him. Interesting.

Morgan turned back to me. “So uh,” he began, “I noticed that you didn’t join us all today.”

I shrugged, for I had nothing really to say in my defense.

Morgan continued. “When I asked Kjelle about you, she just said that you weren’t coming, but it seemed like there was more to the story.” He looked at me expectantly.

I sighed, putting down my untouched stew (apparently the constant craving for food bequeathed to me by Father was trumped by my abysmal feelings). “Kjelle and I,” I explained, “had…an altercation over my participation in today’s training.”

“I thought as much.” He nodded sagely. “I love my sister, but sometimes she can be a little bit too determined.”

The corners of my mouth twitched upwards into a slight smile. Despite all his optimism and naiveté (or maybe because of it), Morgan was extremely perceptive and intelligent. “Aptly put,” I agreed, but then I murmured, shoulders slumping, “Although it was not entirely her fault. I must confess I acted poorly as well. I may have hurt your sister and I do not know where to begin to apologize.”

Morgan made a thoughtful noise. “I’m sure you’ll figure something out.” He got up, dusting off his pants and collecting his empty bowl. Before he left though, his brown eyes met mine. “Hey Laurent, we missed you out there today. Feel free to join us whenever you want.” He gave me a melancholy smile before joining the others on the bench.

There I sat, alone with my now-cold dinner, thinking on what Morgan had said. I wanted nothing more than to go and join everyone else in their merriment, but I could not do so before apologizing to Kjelle and making my actions up to her. But how could I do that? And what was preventing me from ostracizing myself from them again in the future? I did not have the answers to these questions, dear diary, but I knew of someone who might. I quickly downed my dinner and then set off to locate the one person who possibly understood my situation and could help.

I found Mother in her and Father’s tent, pouring over several books and scribbling notes on various rolls of parchment. She had stayed behind at camp to continue her research into the possible origins of the Risen instead of joining the other Original Shepherds in battle. When I entered the tent, she raised a single finger at me and kept writing, her signal for when she is in the middle of something and requires a minute to finish writing down her thoughts. 

Understanding her meaning, I waited patiently across the tent, taking in the titles of the numerous tomes neatly organized on every possible surface. Although there was no plausible way for her to bring the library’s entire collection with her when we traveled, Mother still managed to transport an impressive array of tomes with her wherever she went.

After several minutes of silence broken only by the scratch of her quill, Mother paused her writing and looked up at me. “Good evening, Laurent. Is there something of me that you require?” she inquired.

“Good evening, Mother. You are correct, I have come to you seeking advice,” I nodded.

She put down her quill. “In that case, speak, and I will endeavor to provide you with satisfactory counsel.”

I took a deep breath, steeling myself. Under any other circumstances, I would have gone to Father for advice on an issue such as this, but Father was gone with the other Original Shepherds and Mother was uniquely acquainted with my current circumstances. “I must inquire,” I began, attempting to keep the blush off of my cheeks at asking such a personal question, “How did you ‘fit in’ – for lack of a better term – with the other Shepherds?”

Mother peered at me over the rims of her glasses, evaluating me as if I were a new spell she was trying to comprehend. Whatever she was looking for in my countenance she must have found, for she closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair.

“Oh Laurent,” she sighed, “I did not. I do not. I may be a member of the Shepherds, but I have never been a _part_ of the Shepherds, incorporated with the others.” She looked at me, and I believe I caught a hint of sadness in her eyes that are so similar to my own.

My heart sank, for that was the answer I feared most. “Oh, I see.”

“I wish I could provide better guidance, but in this issue I am woefully uninformed,” she continued. “Most of my interactions with my fellow Shepherds consist of scientific-based sociological study or acquiring new information and skills. It still befuddles me why your Father elected to share his affections with me…” Mother blushed and picked up her quill once again. “I apologize,” she whispered, and I had the feeling that she was apologizing for more than just her lack of counsel.

I looked away, mulling over all she had said. Suddenly, inspiration stuck me like a Thoron bolt to the head.

“Do not apologize, Mother, for you have inadvertently enkindled a solution!” I exclaimed, organizing the pieces of my plan in my mind.

Mother brightened slightly. “Well then, I am glad I could be of some assistance.”

“My deepest gratitude,” I said, respectfully bowing my head, “Good night, Mother.”

“Good night, Laurent,” came the reply, and I believe I heard fondness in her voice as I exited her tent to begin the preparations for my plan.

Now that I have acquired all the necessary materials for tomorrow, dear diary, I am less certain of the caliber of my course of action. My hope is that I will be able to mend what I have broken with Kjelle and integrate myself closer with my companions, but there is a possibility that I will achieve neither of those outcomes. However, I must try, and to that effect, I must bid you goodnight diary, for I must rise quite early in the morning. 

The 8th of July, year 2611 (Day 1,901 in the Past)

Dear Diary,

Today I rose with the sun, determined to make things right between Kjelle and myself. Congregating what I had prepared the previous night, I readied myself to face the day. Apologies are difficult expressions for me, dear diary, for I hate the feeling of vulnerability that comes from admitting fault and all the insecurities that lay bare. However, apologies are like cauterizing a wound: terribly unpleasant but essential for preventing the damage done to a relationship from festering. Father taught me that apologies are necessary for rebuilding and strengthening our bond with other people. If you think about it that way, apologizing can be seen as a form of strength training, which is what began this entire conundrum.

Thus, with my resolve sufficiently steeled, I adjusted my glasses and strode out of my tent –

Straight into Kjelle, knocking me directly onto my posterior (gods above that woman is like a brick wall).

“Ak!” Kjelle exclaimed. Looking down at me, she extended her hand, “Naga’s left toe, Laurent, you surprised me. Are you alright?”

I took her hand and she hauled me effortlessly to my feet. I cleared my throat, attempting to de-fluster myself from our literal run-in. To lose my steadfastness so early in this apology endeavor would spell ruin for the entire operation. “Yes, I am unharmed, thank you. In fact, I was searching for you and this saves me the trouble. I wish to apologize –”

“Oh good!” Kjelle interrupted, brightening a little. “I wanted to say sorry too.”

Now that, dearest diary, surprised me. “You, apologize? Whatever for?”

Kjelle looked at me in confusion, then shook her head and shrugged. “Well, for how I acted yesterday, silly. I shouldn’t have said those rude comments and I definitely shouldn’t have picked you up. So, I’m sorry.”

A small smile graced my lips. “Apology accepted, Kjelle.”

Kjelle smiled back. “In my defense,” she continued almost conspiratorially , “It worked on Severa.”

My jaw dropped. I could not believe my ears! “Preposterous! You are telling me that you went into Severa’s tent, picked her up, and marched her to the training _without_ losing an eye or limb?!”

“Well,” Kjelle chuckled, “Her bark is worse than her bite and after four thousand shouts of ‘Kjelle be more lady-like!’ the effect kind of wears off.”

“I bet,” I laughed, picturing Kjelle hoisting a snarling Severa over her shoulder and strolling calmly away. “I almost wish I was there to see it.” I paused. “Which brings me to my apology. Kjelle, I wish to express my deepest regret for how I acted yesterday morn. I should have been more diplomatic and mature, and I most assuredly should never have hit you.”

Bowing my head, I reached into my satchel and pulled out a book. “Please accept my most sincere apologies and this gift to make amends.”

Kjelle tilted her head to the side, quizzically eyeing the tome before taking it from me. “What’s this?” She cracked it open and started leafing through the pages. “It looks like that record book you’re always filling out for Gerome.”

“It is of that ilk, yes,” I nodded.

“But this one has tables with our names in it. What is this, Laurent?” She asked, closing it gently.

“It is a ledger,” I began, “for tracking the progress of your strength training. I thought that instead of participating directly in your training, I could observe and record statistical data on everyone’s proficiency. That way you will be able to deduce who is improving and in what areas they still need to grow.”

With my plan laid bare, I waited with bated breath to see her reaction. After a couple of seconds of Kjelle looking back and forth between the ledger to myself, her face split into a wide grin.

“That’s a great idea, Laurent!” She beamed, clapping me enthusiastically on the shoulder (which – I assure you diary – did _not_ almost knock me over again).

She opened the ledger again and started to peruse it more carefully. Then she paused, looking up at me with a question in her violet eyes. “Wait a minute, why’s your name in here? I thought you weren’t joining in.”

“Oh yes, about that,” I said as I adjusted my glasses nervously, “Although I will not participate fully in the training, I do concede that you had a valid point yesterday about my physical prowess. Only a fool would believe that he had reached peak performance with no room for improvement, and I Laurent, son of Miriel, am no fool.”

Kjelle chuckled at that, but I ignored her and continued on. “However, I lack sufficient knowledge in order to ascertain what manner of training would enhance my power and physique. Therefore, I am leaving the selection of one activity that will efficiently improve my strength up to you and your expertise.”

Kjelle nodded in understanding, “So what you’re saying is you’re going to let me choose one area to make you stronger in so you’re not such a weakling?”

That is not how I put it all but – “Yes,” I agreed with a sigh.

With that Kjelle hummed and tapped her index finger against her nose, fixing me with an evaluating stare that I had only seen her use when trying to find the best weak point on an enemy’s armor to stab her spear. While that outcome was entirely out of the picture, my palms still irrationally began to sweat. I will admit, Kjelle is a little intimidating.

After an agonizing minute of deliberation, Kjelle perked up. “I’ve got it!” she exclaimed. “We’ll work on your running stamina. Yesterday I was surprised at how fast those twig-legs of yours could carry you when you ran away. If we worked on your endurance then if lightning struck twice and you ran out of spells, then you could just outrun all the half-wits and their swords.”

I mulled the suggestion over until I found no fault with it. Far be it from me to turn my nose up at a sound contingency plan. “Alright, then it is settled: I will observe and analyze your training with this ledger, and you will help me ameliorate my sprinting stamina. We have an accordance.” I offered my had for her to shake.

“Well I don’t know what a lot of those words mean but yeah, we’ve got a deal,” Kjelle shook my hand in a nearly bone crushing grip (how are her hands so strong? Are there even exercises one can perform for that sort of thing?) and smiled. “Now, partner, let’s go get the others. We’ve got a lot of exercises to go through if we’re going to whip these weaklings into shape and we’re wasting daylight just standing here talking!”

I readied my ledger and quill then gestured for her to lead the way. “After you, ma’am.”

Dear diary, I know I have spent the last one thousand, nine hundred days wallowing in my loneliness and allowing it to isolate me further from those who would be potential friends. Not anymore. This morning marked the first day that I stepped towards being an integrated part of the New Generation Shepherds, today and always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is called "Nerd-Jock Solidarity" in my notes. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> I will be updating new chapters every couple of days, so stay tuned for more of your boy Laurent =)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Volume III: Henry   
> Laurent goes to Henry with a crow-related problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little sadder (and agnsty-er) than the others, so mind the tags and enjoy!

The 19th of July, year 2611 (Day 1,912 in the Past)

Dear Diary,

It happened again today, marking it as the fourth day in a row! The first time it happened, I thought it a random, albeit odd, happenstance. The second time aroused my suspicions that something was amiss. By the third time, I was starting to formulate a hypothesis about the pattern of events but today just proved me right!

Crows are dropping pebbles on my head.

Now diary, I understand that this might seem to be the ravings of a madman, but I assure you of my sanity. Allow me to present you with the facts of the past few days in order to substantiate my claim.

I hypothesize that the catalyst for all these perplexing phenomena occurred five days prior. I failed to mention it to you in that day’s entry for it seemed inconsequential at the time. However, now I believe that this one event set off a chain reaction that is affecting me to this day.

It all transpired in the small woods that surround the Shepherd’s barracks in Ylisstol where I had stayed behind the others after Kjelle’s training. While I told the others I was finishing my calculations of the training’s statistics, the truth of the matter is that I required a few extra moments to rest my legs before trudging back to the barracks for dinner. Everyday that we do not engage in battle, Kjelle assists me in building my running stamina. Although I can now maintain my maximum speed for 3.28 yards further than before, that slight victory has come at the price of nearly unbearable hard work. Each time I complete Kjelle’s prescribed regimen, my legs tremble like a newborn foal’s and I do not wish for the others to witness my embarrassment, so weakened and exhausted.

It was for this reason that I was returning to the barracks alone. In retrospect, if I had been with the others, I might not have noticed the incessant cawing of some bird off to my left. Initially, I ignored the sound, writing it off as just a bird’s attempt to garner attention from a mate. Under normal circumstances, I would have never stopped, but there was an unexpected – how to describe it – desperation…to the cries that pulled at the edges of my curiosity. You know me well diary, so it should come as no surprise that I gave into my curiosity and diverged from the path, following the sound of the calls to its origin.

I discovered the source of all the racket underneath a blackberry thicket. A crow (or raven, I cannot tell the difference) was caught in a hunter’s trap, struggling to free itself from the net.

Let it be known that I have never claimed to be an animal expert. In fact, the only animal I have encountered that hadn’t completely shunned me is my horse, Rexcalibur (and I suspect that is only because I occasionally will sneak him extra apples whenever Severa goes against my wishes and purchases more fruit than we could ever hope to eat). Because of this, I customarily leave animals to their own affairs and they pay me similar respects. However, looking into the frightened eyes of this captured creature, I knew I could not leave it to its undoubtedly grim fate.

As delicately as I could manage, I began to unravel the unfortunate beast from its bindings. I am immeasurably grateful that the leather of my gloves is thick enough to protect my hands from corvid beaks as well as fire spells, for if they were not, then I most assuredly would have lost chunks of my fingers as the animal renewed its thrashing.

“Come now good sir,” I tried soothing the bird as I untangled the net from its talons, “If you would kindly hold still for a moment then I would be able to free you and we could both wash our hands…err wings?...of this entire affair.”

While I doubt that the captive took any comfort from my actual words, apparently the sound of my voice provided sufficient enough distraction that the bird stopped struggling. Metaphorically pouncing on this window of opportunity, I finally freed the bird of its confines.

Upon realizing that it was unfettered, the crow burst into a flurry of wings and feathers, shooting up before circling around my head to perch on a nearby branch. It fixed me with one beady eye then began to preen its ruffled feathers.

“You’re quite welcome,” I said while bowing my head respectfully and turning back to the path. Once I cleared the tree line, I promptly forgot about our little encounter.

However, the next day I seemed to see ravens (or crows?) nearly everywhere I went, from the bathhouse to the Treasury to my own humble dormitory. At first, I thought nothing of it. In her grimoire, Grandmother hypothesized that once the mind sees something unique, such as a four-leaf clover for example, then the eye will pick up on its existence more frequently. This tricks the mind into thinking that there has been a sudden increase of four-leaf clovers when in fact the number of clovers has not changed at all, but rather our ability to observe the clovers has been enhanced. I believed that I was just seeing a concrete example of said theory, instead of suspecting anything was amiss.

That is until the first pebble fell on my head.

Brady and I were strolling towards the woods for Kjelle’s training, discussing his progress on improving the formality of his speech when from directly above me I heard a loud

_Caw!_

And felt a small _thump_ on my hat. 

“Wha’ in the blazin’ blouses was that?!” Brady cried, jumping to the side and scanning the surrounding area.

“In this matter, I am just as befuddled as you are,” I replied as I took off my hat and ran my fingers over the spot where the small stone had landed. Satisfied that no damage had been done to my cranium, I replaced my hat and bent to retrieve the pebble. It was an odd green-ish color, but other than that completely unremarkable.

“Hey you all hunky-dory?” Brady asked, looking me over with a careful eye, “I could check out your noggin for ya.”

I smiled at the healer but continued walking. “I appreciate the offer Brady,” I called over my shoulder, “but I am unharmed over such an inconsequential thing. Besides, I recommend you conserve your energy for whatever Kjelle has planned for today’s training.”

“Blast!” he cursed under his breath and followed me down the path, scowling even more.

Wanting to study the pebble further, I slipped it into the pocket of my robe before readying Kjelle’s training ledger for the day. However, all thoughts of the mysterious pebble were forgotten by the time I had finished my final lap through the forest, heaving and wobbling with not even an inch’s worth of improvement to show for it. Brady had the right of it. Blast.

That is, I forgot about the pebble until another one fell directly on my head in the same manner the following day.

And the next.

Which brings us, dearest diary, to today. I was just leaving the dining hall after breakfast when I heard the now familiar _caw!_ and felt the customary thump on my hat. I wish I could say that I held out my hand and skillfully caught the pebble as it rolled off the wide brim of my hat, but instead I totally fumbled and missed, most assuredly looking foolish if there had been anyone else around to see aside from the crow.

“What is the meaning of this?” I demanded of the bird, holding up the newest pebble.

The crow blinked back at me, obviously saying nothing. What was I thinking? Birds cannot speak.

Except… there is someone amongst the Shepherds who can communicate with the creatures, someone who could possibly have answers about my bird-related plight. Although I try to avoid the man as much as possible, I couldn’t deny that he was my best bet on solving this mystery and saving me from having to constantly carry an umbrella in order to protect my poor hat from the hail of pebbles I was seemingly doomed to endure. With that as my motivation, I set off in search of Henry.

After half an hour of searching, I finally found the dark mage in the wyvern stables feeding a bucketful of freshly dead (if the blood was anything to go by) mice to Minerva while cooing nonsense to the wyvern. I dared not question where he got that many mice diary, for the answer could not have been anything less than disturbing.

Trying to look past the macabre fate of the mice, I cleared my throat to get the man’s attention.

“Greetings, Henry. Salutations, Minerva,” I said to them both as their attention turned to me. The weight of their gazes made the fine hairs on the back of my arms and the nape of my neck stand up.

“Why hello there, Laurent,” Henry greeted, the usual grin plastered across his face. “It’s so very _mice_ to see you!” he cackled, holding one of the creatures up to me before tossing it to Minerva, who caught it in a powerful _chomp_ of her jaws. In that moment, I knew not who to be more afraid of.

But I am no coward, so I gave a tiny cough that perhaps could have been interpreted as a chuckle before replying. “The pleasure is mine.”

“So what can I do ya for?” he asked, “Want to pet Minervykins? Or maybe you’re looking for Gerome?” He added with a wink.

Diary, I have no inkling as to the reason behind that wink or why the mention of his son caused me to blush slightly, but those were not the two mysteries on my mind at the time.

“Uh no, actually,” I clarified, “I came seeking your assistance with a…personal matter.”

“Oh I see, you need somebody cursed.” Henry’s grin split inhumanly wider, but his smile did not reach his eyes. I shudder to think of them even now, dearest diary, for those eyes were so horribly, horribly, empty.

In that instant, I very nearly put Kjelle’s training to good use and ran out of there, but the thought of being accosted by overhead pebbles for the rest of my life stayed my feet. Instead, I tried to take a calming breath before forging ahead.

“N-no thank you, Henry. Instead I need your help communicating with some birds. As I understand it, you can understand members of the corvidae family?” I inquired. 

A flash of what seemed to be relief flit across his face before Henry’s mouth settled back into his customary smile. “Sure thing Laurent! I can talk to all sorts of critters, crows and ravens included. I’m guessing you have a specific bird in mind for me to chat with, so lead the way and tell me what’s _caws_ -ing you to want to talk to them in the first place.”

At that, I came close to deflating at the reprieve. However before I had the chance, Henry grabbed my wrist and deposited a mouse from the bucket into my hand.

“But before we go, why don’t you feed little Missy here a treat?” he chortled.

I know not what possessed me to follow through with such a suggestion, dear diary. Perhaps it was the knowledge of how important Minerva is to Gerome that made me do it (and I wish not to delve into the implications of _that_ at the moment). Nevertheless, I reached out my quivering palm to the wyvern, steeling myself to lose my entire hand in the process. 

With surprising gentleness, Minerva plucked the mouse from me before swallowing it down. After a moment of staring into my eyes, she gave a warm huff, fogging up my glasses.

“Nya ha ha!” Henry laughed, “That means ‘thanks!’ in wyvern-speak. It looks like she likes you!”

A tentative smile pulled at the corners of my lips. “You’re very welcome, Minerva,” I said as I wiped the remaining blood and wyvern-saliva off my glove with my handkerchief.

“Alright cutie-pie,” Henry rubbed affectionately at Minerva’s muzzle, “We’ll save the rest of these for later.”

Minerva growled in quite the frightening manner, but all Henry did in response was scold her. “Now don’t give me any of that back-talk young lady! We both know that if you spoil your lunch Cherche will turn my hide into a hat. Hey, I bet I’d make a pretty nice hat! Well never mind that, I’ll see you later. Come, Laurent, lead the way!”

I stared dumbfounded at whatever nonsense just spewed out of the grinning mage before realizing myself and guiding Henry out of the stables.

As we walked along, I explained the events of the last few days to Henry, who was uncharacteristically quiet throughout the entire tale, only providing a few thoughtful hums at the appropriate times.

It did not take long before a flock of crows began circling above our heads, cawing loudly.

“See what I mean, Henry? This is exactly what I have been speaking about!” I exclaimed.

Instead of responding, Henry just turned to me with mischief written all over his face. “Hey Laurent, do you know what they call a group of ravens?”

“No I do not, educate me,” I replied.

“A murder!” Henry called gleefully. “Do you know why it’s called a murder?”

My heart sank. “N-no,” I said, glancing nervously at the sky that continued to fill with the black birds.

The dark mage cackled. “Nya ha ha! Me neither! Let’s go see what these guys are all squawking about.”

With that, he skipped over to the nearest tree. I followed behind, not nearly as enthusiastically. As we made our way towards the tree, the birds began to settle on its boughs, interspacing the bright summer green of the leaves with undulating black.

Henry just stood in front of them all, eyes closed and listening. My gaze darted between the man and the birds, more and more apprehensive as the minutes ticked by. What could they possibly be saying? Now diary, I have never been a superstitious man, but confronted with the plethora of obsidian birds with their small, sharp eyes, I found myself starting to believe that all of this was some manner of ill omen.

That was, until Henry burst out laughing. “Oh Laurent,” he said doubling over in giggles, “I can see why you wanted to get me. They’re absolutely _raven_ about you!”

Misunderstanding his meaning (I shall blame my nervous state), I cocked my head to the side. “So the birds are ravens?”

“Nope,” he replied, “They’re crows.”

“Then why did you-? Never mind, can you understand what they are saying?” I asked.

“Oh boy can I! And they have a lot to say about you, you’re the _squawk_ of the town.” 

In retrospect, I will admit that his jokes were actually quite clever. However, in the moment I was most thoroughly unamused.

“And what are they saying about me?!” I nearly yelled. I could feel my patience unraveling quickly. I began to understand Mother’s impolite habit of abruptly leaving in the middle of certain conversations. Nonetheless, I am not my mother – contrary to popular belief – and I realized my blunder.

“I apologize for yelling,” I said, dipping my head in regret.

Henry was completely unfazed by everything. “Don’t worry about it, stuffy-pants,” he smiled. “They tell me that the Mountain-Head Helper saved their friend and they just want to say thank you.”

Oh, well that made a certain amount of sense… all of it except – “Mountain Head Helper?” I asked, confusion writing itself across my brow. 

“Yep, that’s what they call you. Probably ‘ _caws_ of your hat,” he explained with a giggle.

I looked back at the crows, a newfound respect and amazement washing over me for the avian animals. “I am surprised,” I said softly, taking time to study the individual birds in the tree, “I was unaware how intelligent they are.”

Henry nodded happily. “Yeah a lot of people don’t know this but crows are really smart! They call tell people’s faces apart and remember which humans are friends and which are foes. Looks like you just joined me in the friend category!”

I smiled before curiosity struck me. “Does that mean you have a name in their language?”

“Oh yeah,” the dark mage replied, “They call me Snow-Feather Friend!”

Snow...feather…ah, I understood the reference to Henry’s stark white hair. My mind wandered to Gerome, who had clearly inherited the shade of his locks from his father, which contrasted quite nicely with the black mask and armor he always wore…

I snapped myself out of that line of thinking, focusing back on the matter at hand. “So if I understand you correctly,” I began, “Then their following me around and dropping pebbles on my head was just an expression of gratitude?”

“You’ve got it!” Henry beamed. “Or should I say, you’ve _caw_ ’t it? Nah, that one’s not very good…but anyway, the little stones were gifts! They thought those pebbles were pretty, so they wanted you to have them in return for their friend’s life.”

I turned back to the flock in the tree. “I appreciate your gifts,” I said, smiling, “And I am glad that I saved your friend.”

As if I had spoken the magic words to break a spell, all the crows alighted from the tree, cawing and swirling before soaring off into the sky. All of them save for one, who hopped among the boughs before settling on a branch at approximately my eye-height.

“And this is Crah-Caw, the one you saved,” Henry introduced. “She’s the one who has been dropping the pebbles on you. She wants you to know how much she appreciates your help.”

I smiled at the bird, something familiar in her shining eyes. “Good day, Crah-Caw,” I greeted, tipping my hat. “It was my pleasure. I am just glad to see that you remain unharmed.”

Crah-Caw stared at me, tilting her head side to side before taking flight, presumably to join the rest of her…well, murder. Henry and I remained under the tree until she turned into a little black speck then disappeared amongst the clouds. 

Turning to the dark mage, I extended my hand for him to shake. “Many thanks for your assistance in this matter Henry. Without your help, I fear I would have been pelted with pebbles for the rest of my days.”

He shook my offered hand, his fingers deathly cold even through my glove and despite the warm summer sun. “No problem Laurent, anytime. I love talking to crows and it was actually pretty fun watching you get all nervous over a couple of birds!”

“Yes, well,” I coughed, taking back my hand (before it froze off) and adjusting my glasses, “Good day, Henry.”

With that, I turned towards the Library, planning on researching more about the corvidae family.

When I emerged from my fact-finding expedition, I realized that I had an additional shadow. From the Library to the dining hall to the Treasury, Crah-Caw followed me as I went about my day. She even followed me to the door of Gerome’s dormitory when I went to give him my daily report. Even behind his mask, I could tell he gave me a questioning look, but said nothing of my feathered companion.

To tell you truth diary, I did not mind Crah-Caw’s presence as much as I expected to. It was oddly comforting to have another soul join me as I competed all my tasks. Growing up, I never had a pet (that dark future was no place for animals, and besides, I never understood the appeal of another useless mouth to feed) but now I find myself comforted whenever I see her out of the corner of my eye. As I write this to you, dear diary, Crah-Caw has nestled herself outside my window on the little ledge, falling asleep. I hope she will be there in the morning.

The 26th of July, year 2611 (Day 1,919 in the Past)

Dear Diary,

What words are there to describe this bone-aching numbness that I feel? I do not know what to say except…it was all my fault. Crah-Caw is gone and I must bear the burden of blame.

As you well know, Crah-Caw has been my near-constant companion this past week. Even when the Shepherds left our base to dispatch a battalion of Plegian soldiers, Crah-Caw accompanied me on our campaign. When I returned from the battle, weary and bruised, I found her perched on the cross-pole of my tent. I had grown fond of my black-feathered friend. And now I will never see her again.

It happened this morning. Owain and I were sent into the woods to scout around for any sign of the Risen. We decided that our search would be expedited if we split up, so Owain went East while Crah-Caw and I headed West.

Our journey was a peaceful one, no signs of trouble, the only thing of import being the ripe blackberries that I picked and shared with my companion. So great was the trust that we had fostered, that I was able to hold out the plump, juicy berries between my gloved fingers and Crah-Caw would gently extract them with her beak.

On the way back to our rendezvous point to meet up with Owain, that tranquility was shattered.

Out of nowhere, Crah-Caw let forth a deafening screech before darting into the foliage to my right. Not even a second later, a Risen crashed through the underbrush with Crah-Caw circling its head and pecking at its hollow eye sockets. Before I could react, it charged at me, slashing at my chest and bowling me to the ground. As I hit the earth, all the tomes scattered from my satchel. I desperately scrambled for the nearest one, barely registering that it was Arcwind before I fumbled it open. I shuffled backward in an attempt to put more distance between myself and the monster while Crah-Caw continued to rend the undead’s flesh with her talons.

Mentally, I reached into the tome, pulling the swirling elemental energy from the page and focusing it in my left palm. Adrenaline rushing through my veins, I directed all my willpower into the whirling vortex in my hand before unleashing the spell upon the Risen.

The wind and I roared together as the magic collided with the monster, ripping it apart. It collapsed, downed by my arcane power.

It was then, with my heartbeat drumming too loudly in my ears, that I realized what I had done.

Crah-Caw’s body lay next to the felled Risen, crumpled and broken. I clambered over to her on my hands and knees, the word “no” falling from my lips in a stream, like a prayer. But it was too late, all the light had gone from her coal black eyes.

In that moment Owain burst through the trees, yelling my name.

“Naga’s breath Laurent, are you all right?” he cried, “You’re bleeding!”

I followed his eyes down to my chest, where blood seeped through the tears in my robes. I hadn’t noticed. The pain in my heart must have overpowered everything else.

I sat there doing nothing as he hurriedly gathered up all my tomes and my hat that had fallen when I did. I looked at him with empty eyes as he got one shoulder under my arm and pulled me to my feet.

“Let’s get you back to camp,” Owain grunted as he half-carried, half-dragged me away from the scene.

I said nothing, only watched behind me as the little black body was swallowed up by the leaves and branches of the forest, never to be seen again.

I awoke to the late-afternoon sunlight streaming through canvas. For a second, I believed that nothing had happened, that it was all a horrible nightmare and Crah-Caw would be waiting from me outside of the tent. But when I tried to move, the pain in my bandaged chest told me otherwise.

“Laurent? Thank the gods, you’re awake.” Father’s smiling face came into view, messy olive-brown hair catching the rays that danced through the air. “Lissa said you’re going to be fine, just need to rest for a day or two.”

He must have seen the pain in my eyes, for his smile was replaced with concern. “What’s wrong?” he asked, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder, and for some reason I could not bring myself to tell him the truth. He would not understand.

“’Tis nothing,” I lied, gingerly sitting up to test the limits of my new injury. Finding that the physical pain was nothing that I couldn’t handle, I carefully swung my legs over the edge of the cot, away from Father.

I must have gotten better at lying – or this younger version of my father did not know me well enough – for he believed me (the Father I remember from growing up would never have been so easily fooled). 

“Alright, if you’re sure,” he said, passing me my glasses from the little table beside the cot. “I will go tell your mother that you’re ok. I’m sure she’ll want to know how you’re doing.” He left the medical tent with one last smile back at me.

“Let me hazard a guess, she was too busy researching something to be bothered to sit by my side,” I muttered bitterly to no one. But that was an old hurt, a small drop in the ocean of anguish that threatened to drown me. 

Not wanting to succumb to that fate just yet, I placed my hat (Mother’s hat) on my head and exited the tent.

It must have been fate (if I believed in such a thing) that brought me to Henry’s side, for it was not due to any conscious effort on my part. I found him lounging on the grass at the outskirts of camp, aimlessly flipping through the pages of a Mire spellbook and humming tunelessly to himself. I did not know why I had sought his company, dear diary, and I just stood there. Luckily, Henry seemed to grasp my reasons better than I.

“Hey-o, Laurent,” he greeted chipperly, “Come take a seat.”

It seemed that my body was not my own, for I lowered myself – slowly, as if submerged in freezing water – next to where his hand patted the grass without thinking. A first for me.

We sat without speaking, and the only sounds were the wind rustling the grass and Henry’s little tune. For how long we held that plateau, I could not tell you. I felt as if I were adrift, lost to the pain that left a gaping wound in my chest.

Eventually, Henry broke the silence. “They told me what happened.” His voice was softer than I had ever heard it.

I opened my mouth to ask who “they” were, when movement caught the corner of my eye. Up in the nearby branches of a tree perched a dozen crows (not ravens, I can tell the difference now). They looked down at me, a silent jury for my sins.

“I am sorry,” I whispered, voice hoarse, “I am so very sorry.”

One of the birds gave a soft _caw_.

“They know,” was all Henry said.

Diary, I have not cried since I was a young boy of eight years old, that night the Grimleal invaded our home and Father stayed behind to ensure Mother’s and my safe escape. The pain I felt now was different than the grief of that night, though no less intense. In that moment sitting next to Henry under the crows, I envied Brady and his ability to easily let tears fall. Letting the agony spill in tracks down my cheeks would have been preferable to the overwhelming tightness in my chest.

“I know not why,” I murmured, finally giving voice to the question that had plagued me since I woke in the medical tent, “This pains me so. This is obviously not the first time I have experienced loss. The future from whence I came made sure of that.”

Before Henry could respond, I continued, staring resolutely ahead, “Nor is it the thought of killing that troubles me so. I have killed my fair share of enemies over the course of my lifetime. Enough killing to last a lifetime.” I chuckled bitterly.

“That may be so, Laurent,” Henry acknowledged, closing his tome and turning to me, “But I assume it’s the first time you’ve ever killed a friend. I hope.”

His words hit me, the blow almost as physical as the one from the Risen in the forest. My first time killing a friend?

“It gets easier, I know from experience,” he continued, and diary, I had never seen his grin so fragile, “but for your sake I hope it doesn’t ever come to that.”

By the gods above and below, he was right. What manner of dark magic did he possess, that he was able to read the contents of my soul so clearly while they remained obfuscated even to myself? Crah-Caw was my friend, and I had killed her.

“What do I do now?” I asked.

Henry sighed, returning to his tome. “You move on. It’s the only thing you _can_ do.”

And oh, if that wasn’t the most bitter truth of all.

Looking for any manner of distraction from the hopelessness I felt, I reached into my pocket for my lens cloth. However, instead of soft fabric, my fingers brushed against something small and smooth. I pulled it out, and in my palm rested the little green-ish pebble that Crah-Caw had first dropped on my head. Even through the pain of grief and guilt, I couldn’t help but give a small smile.

“Thank you, Henry,” I said, placing the pebble on his open page, “for everything. For communicating with the crows, for your advice, and for showing me that friends can be found in the most unexpected places.”

Henry paused and picked up the pebble, turning it over in his skeletal fingers. The he smiled back a me, and I swear I caught a glimmer of something genuine in his rose-colored eyes. “I guess this means we’re birds of a feather now!” he giggled.

“Yes, I do believe it does,” I agreed. With that, I felt some of the tightness in my chest ease just a fraction.

And so, dearest diary, I lost a friend today. I do believe that I will miss Crah-Caw terribly for some time, possibly for the rest of my days. But with all things such as these, the grief will pass and I will move on. And I take comfort in the knowledge that I am not alone, for I have discovered a confidant with whom I can share this unique brand of pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dedicate this chapter to my good dog Lakota, who I miss very much. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! I promise that the next chapter will be filled with lighthearted shenanigans courtesy of Inigo =) 
> 
> At this point I have another 8 1/2 chapters planned out, but if you have any suggestions or ideas for future chapters, I would love to hear them!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Volume IV: Inigo   
> While attempting a new enchantment, Laurent receives an unexpected visit from Inigo.

The 28th of July, year 2611 (Day 1,921 in the Past)

Dear Diary,

Please accept my deepest and most heartfelt apologies. I truly cannot believe that he would just pick you up and start reading you as if you were any old pamphlet there for his perusal! I would never have expected any of my time-traveling companions to be so _low_ as to leaf through something so obviously personal and private as you, dearest diary, but it seems I had underestimated Inigo and his utter lack of respect.

What was Inigo doing in my tent in the first place? That is a very good question diary. Allow me to elucidate.

Although I passed the entire day marching to Plegia with my fellow Shepherds, my mind was occupied by something completely disparate from the melting sun and seemingly endless dusty road. You see diary, I had just finished Mother’s book on the theory behind practical enchantments the night before and was inspired to implement some of those theories in oeder to elevate my own enchantments. To that effect, I pitched my tent and collected firewood for the cooking fire in record time. I even found myself taking after Father as I wolfed down dinner in a manner I would on any other day scoff at. I must confess that I had not been this excited to conduct magical experiments since I worked with Mother to create my “Fire Works”. Even Severa commented on my 'dumb goofy grin' during the evening meal, but I paid her no heed; I had enchantments to invent. 

Lamentably, my enthusiasm transmuted into frustration after eight failed attempts to enchant the prototype medallion with a heat rune that will warm the wearer up in freezing weather. The problem lied not in heating the metal of the medallion up, but in tempering the heat so that it did not burn off the skin of whoever was wearing it. I had enough burns on my hands from my trials to know how unpleasant that feeling was.

I was just flipping through the Regulating Elemental Intensity chapter of my book when Inigo blew past my tent flap, dove into my bedroll, and buried himself under the covers.

I blinked several times, incredulous. For a moment I thought myself insane, for what just occurred before my eyes was so outside the realm of possibility that madness was the only conceivable explanation. That is, I questioned my mental fortitude until Inigo wiggled under my blankets (to get more comfortable I presume) and I was reminded how very real this situation was.

No matter, I must face all my problems head-on, even the extraordinarily peculiar ones, so I cleared my throat before greeting, “Good evening, Inigo.”

“Heeey Laurent,” came the reply, slightly muffled.

I stared at the lump, waiting for him to explain himself but after several seconds it became clear that he would need some extra prompting. “Might I inquire exactly what you are doing in my bed? If this is a new tactic you have devised to woo the ladies, I assure you it is failing spectacularly. Besides, I am not a woman, in case you have forgotten.” 

Inigo peeked one eye from underneath my favorite blanket. “No,” he began, “I know you’re not a lady, but you’ve got a certain air of beauty about you.” Even with only one eye showing, I could tell he winked at me, at which I scoffed.

“You are dodging my question. Why are you in my bed?” I repeated a bit more forcefully.

“Oh, yes, about that. Well Noire seemed pretty upset at the perfectly friendly conversation I was having with Severa and so I wanted to give her some space to calm down. At least until she puts down the bow,” he explained.

‘Friendly conversation’ my hat, but Inigo did bring up a fascinating point, dear diary. As of late, I have been confused by Noire’s jealous hunting of Inigo when I have observed on more than one occasion her and Yarne developing – how do I say this? – a _fondness_ for each other. Why would Noire focus so heavily on Inigo’s philandering when she seems perfectly content with Yarne? Oh well, a mystery for another day. 

“Alright,” I conceded, “You have explained why it is you are hiding, but why my tent specifically?”

Inigo popped his head out. “Because she’ll never look for me in here.” 

I could not help but raise my eyebrows at his sound logic. He was right, Noire would never seek him out in my tent. I scarcely believed he was in here to begin with, and I was conversing with him in the flesh.

“Very well. You my stay here,” I acquiesced. “However, I require total silence in order to concentrate on this enchantment. And get out of my bed!”

Inigo threw back the covers and crawled out of my bedroll with a smile. “Thanks Laurent!” he beamed, “I’ll owe you one.”

Shaking my head – skeptical that I would ever need to hide in Inigo’s tent for him to return the favor – I turned back to my desk to continue enchanting. Now where was that passage I was looking for before I was so rudely interrupted?

Inigo managed four whole minutes before opening his mouth. “So, uh, you’ve got a lot of books in here, huh?” he said looking around.

I glared at the man over my shoulder. “Your powers of observation astound me,” I said flatly, displeasure written clearly on my face.

If Inigo detected my sarcasm, he did not let it show. “Have you read them all?”

“Yes,” I responded, “And as much as I would love to chat with you about my collection, I am in the middle of something that requires my full attention. One mistake and this entire tent might go up in flames” – that wasn’t necessarily the truth, but Inigo didn’t need to know that – “and Noire would most assuredly find you then, if we weren’t reduced to ash that is.”

Inigo gulped. “I shall be as quiet as a mouse.”

That I sincerely doubted, but I returned to my work.

The crux of my failure lied in selecting the correct tome to transfigure into my enchantment. If I use a regular Fire spellbook, then the enchantment would not burn too hot to touch but would only last a few seconds. An Arcfire spell would last significantly longer but exuded too much heat. If I could just find a way to balance heat and longevity –

_CRASH!_

I wheeled around to find Inigo standing over my lightning-collecting device, which had tumbled to the floor.

“S-sorry,” he stuttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

I inhaled deeply in an attempt to quell my rising irritation. “Please refrain from touching any of my other delicate instruments,” I growled between clenched teeth.

Inigo nodded, then sat on the floor with his hands in his lap at my glare. Satisfied that he would cause no further harm to my belongings, I once again opened my book to try and find the solution to my conundrum.

At the chapter on enchanting materials, I paused my cursory skimming and began to reread in more depth.

_When selecting or designing an item to enchant, functionality of the item must not be the only consideration. One must also cogitate the properties of the enchanting material, for some materials will respond differently when exposed to certain elemental magics. For example, water will transfer the effects of lightning-based enchantments farther than wood._

That was it! Arcfire was the correct spell to use for its heat and duration, but metal was the incorrect medium for the medallion. If I could find a different material that did not exacerbate the heat of the spell like metal did, then the enchantment would last while still being safe to the touch. But what substance would that be? Metal was obviously out of the picture, wood or fabric would just immolate, and glass would melt under the heat.

As I pondered, my eyes drifted around my small desk before settling on the three small pebbles I proudly displayed in the corner. Stone…stone might actually work.

I reached under my chair, fingers questing for a rock in the grass. Upon finding the perfect specimen, I began carving the necessary runes and imbuing it with the Arcfire spell. After several minutes of intense concentration, I held a wonderfully warm rock in the center of my palm. Success!

It was then that I realized how quiet Inigo had been for the past three-quarters of an hour. 

“My thanks for your silent cooperation in this matter, Inigo. Now hold this stone and tell me what you think…” I pivoted in my seat to see the man in question lounging on my bedroll, reading you, my dear diary.

My jaw dropped and my checks heated as if _they_ had been enchanted with an Arcfire spell, flush spreading all the way to my ears. I opened my mouth but it took a few seconds for any sounds to make it past embarrassment’s tight grip on my throat.

“What in Naga’s name do you think you’re doing?!” I shouted, voice cracking (as if I wasn’t already humiliated enough). 

Brown eyes snapped up from your pages to meet mine, caught in the act. “Well…” he started to explain, “I was quite bored and thought that you wouldn’t mind if I did a little reading. If it’s any consolation, you’re a very good writer Laurent.”

Words cannot describe my anger and mortification in that moment. I stomped over to his reclining form and shot out my hand for him to return you to me.

Inigo at least had the decency to look sheepish as he placed you in my hands and stood from my bed. His contrition, however, was short lived.

“Sooo…Gerome, huh?” he smirked, eyebrows waggling. 

At that, I very nearly died dear diary. Instead I screamed, “Get out!” before burying my face in my hands, heedless of the smudges my fingertips were placing all over my glasses. When I finally raised my head, Inigo was gone.

Now Inigo knows all of my secrets. He knows of my trials those five years alone in the desert. He knows of my loneliness and my insecurities. He even knows of my…feelings…for Gerome. The one man who now holds such intimate knowledge of my soul is the last person in Ylisse and Valm with whom I would have willingly shared such personal truths. But what am I to do? The milk is spilled, the damage is done, and I am not willing to go to Tharja or Henry for a memory-wiping hex. My only hope is that in the morning, Inigo will have enough decency to not go dispersing my shame to the rest of the Shepherds. Especially not to Gerome. 

* * *

Salutations once again dear diary. I am just as surprised as you to be writing this. I thought that that would be the end to my evening, but I was clearly incorrect. 

After completing my entry to you, I readied myself for bed, fixing my blankets that Inigo had so rudely displaced.

However, for once in my life sleep did not come easily, and I found myself wondering how everyone would react if Inigo told them my secrets. I imagined that half the camp would mock me while the other half would pity me (and I do not know which would be worse). I wondered how Mother would behave if she knew the full breadth of my complicated feelings towards her, or if she would even care at all. Would Father be pleased or upset if he discovered that I lied to him about how much influence he has had on me, how much I truly take after him? I imagined Gerome’s disgust and betrayal at finding out that there are times where I crave more than simple friendship from him, for he could not possibly share those feelings for someone as egotistical and unworthy as myself. These thoughts swirled around my head, causing me more and more misery with every pass.

Suddenly, my ears detected the rustling of grass from the other side of the canvas. I held my breath, waiting to hear something else.

“Pssst, Laurent, are you awake?” a voice whispered from outside my tent.

Inigo?

“You have some nerve coming back here,” I hissed back at him.

I heard a sigh. “I know, I know. Hey, I wanted to apologize, so would you just follow me? I want to show you something.”

I took a second to debate his offer, but it was clear that I wasn’t falling asleep anytime soon and he had piqued my curiosity (you know how I am a slave to my inquisitiveness), so I got out of bed. I pulled on my boots, grabbed my glasses, and threw my cloak over my nightshirt before stepping out into the night. 

Inigo stood there, wrapped tightly in his own cape and bathed in the light of the nearly full moon. Once I exited my tent, his eyes danced all over me and he let of a short puff of laughter.

“What is it?” I snapped, crossing my arms.

“I’m sorry, it’s just I’ve never seen you not perfectly put together before. You're not even wearing your hat! It’s kinda…cute,” He japed with a giggle.

I bristled at that and ran my fingers through my hair in an attempt to order my undoubtedly unruly locks. “So what is it you are so desperate to show me?” I bit out under my breath, still rather angry with him for invading my privacy.

He winced at my harsh tone but turned and started walking quietly away from camp. “Follow me.”

I huffed but did as he suggested, trailing him through the tents and farther into the field where we had stopped for the night.

After a minute or so of walking, Inigo finally deemed we were far away enough. He passed and I saw his shoulders rise and fall in a deep breath. Then he turned back to face me.

“I apologize for reading your diary, Laurent,” he started, “and I’m going to make it up to you.”

I opened my mouth to ask him precisely how he planned to make it up to me but before I could utter a word, he held up a hand to shush me.

And then he let his cloak slide off his shoulders, revealing an outfit similar to his mother’s. After a moment of stunned silence, Inigo began to dance.

I watched, enraptured, as he pranced around under the moonlight, arms flowing, hips swaying and spine arching to a beat only he could hear. It was beautiful. I was shocked that he was sharing this with me, for it is no secret how shy Inigo is about his dancing. As he twirled and leapt amongst the tall grass, it dawned on me how personal this all was, how it nearly rivaled reading my diary in terms of intimacy.

All too soon, Inigo ended his dance, striking a dramatic pose and holding it, as if letting the final chord fade away.

I stood there dumbfounded by what I had just witnessed until Inigo cleared his throat, a flush covering his cheeks (and not just from the exertion of dancing).

“So yeah, I’m really sorry,” he reiterated between panting breaths, “And now you have blackmail fuel too. I won’t tell anyone about your diary if you don’t tell anyone about my dancing.”

Mutually assured destruction, or at least mutually assured mortification. I could live with that.

I nodded. “We have an accordance. I forgive you.”

Inigo beamed, smile catching the moonlight before he ran over and wrapped me up in an enthusiastic embrace. After a moment of surprise at the other’s touch, I awkwardly patted his back until he released me.

“You know, I could always teach you how to dance,” he said with a smirk, placing a hand on his hip.

Now it was my turn to blush. “N-no thank you,” I stammered. “While I appreciate the offer, I fear I am much to stiff and…spindly…to have any semblance of grace like you do.”

At that Inigo just laughed. “Well ok, if you say so. I’m sure we could find someone who would appreciate the sight of you shaking your stuff.” His expression turned mischievous and I could already tell that I wasn’t going to like whatever was coming next (even more than the idea of ‘shaking my stuff’). “Speaking of which, let me know whenever you’re going to put the moves on Gerome. I could teach you some of my signature techniques.”

“No offence Inigo, but I question the caliber of these so called ‘signature techniques’,” I joked, and he chuckled with me. “Why are you so invested in my feelings toward Gerome anyway?”

“Cause that’s what friends are for!” he chirped. “Plus, if you and Gerome have each other, then that leaves more lovely ladies all for me.”

That is technically how mathematics works, and so I shrugged. “You have a point,” I granted.

With that, we walked back to camp together, confident that our secrets were safe with the other.

Now that I think about it, I am slightly glad that Inigo read you, dearest diary, for it taught me that sometimes vulnerability builds friendships. After what happened tonight, I feel that I have a better understanding of Inigo, and that he can empathize better with me. Even if I have to bear Inigo’s unsubtle winking whenever I am in the near vicinity of Gerome, maybe it’s worth the ordeal of being known. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> Please let me know if you have any comments/ideas for future chapters!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Volume V: Severa  
> Laurent must create a new budget of the Treasury, but Severa's spending habits keep causing problems for the both of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gyldowen is the name of the Robin in my game =)

The 10th of August, year 2611 (Day 1,934 in the Past)

Dear Diary,

My fate has been sealed and I have gleaned the manner of my death. I will not be felled by a Risen nor pierced by an arrow nor ran through with a sword. I will not even be slain by that gods-awful poison that Kjelle claims is ‘cooking’. No. Instead of any of those more honorable – or at least more understandable – demises, Severa and her complete disregard of my Treasury budget will be the death of me, my heart giving up and stopping out of sheer frustration.

Well perhaps I am succumbing to a fit of melodrama, dearest diary, but Naga’s holy fire it does feel that way in the moment. And if I do meet my end by Severa’s words, then you cannot profess that you were not forewarned. 

The entire ordeal began with the Treasury books, as it so often does with her. Lucina had requested I provide her and her father a full fiscal report of the Shepherds’ Treasury and a proposed budget for the upcoming campaign for their War Council Meeting next week. Fulfilling my role as Treasurer, I updated my record books, organized our receipts, tallied our inventory and armory, and crafted a budget for the next phase of the war.

And yet, all my hard work and diligence was vanquished by candles. Just prior to presenting everything to Lucina this morning, I decided to run the numbers on our current finances one final time. The sums and totals that were equaling each other so beautifully the previous day were suddenly all off-kilter. According to my most recent calculations, the Treasury was short of my projected amounts. This should not have been possible! I double- and triple-checked the numbers, but they revealed the same truth each time. I even went into the Treasury itself and counted by hand each and every gold piece before I accepted that apparently we were missing nearly a thousand gold.

Once I had firmly established that the gold was in fact gone, I then turned my attention to the next mystery: _where_ could it have gone? Fortunately, I was able to shed light on that enigma quite quickly. All I had to do was review the purchase logs to find the source of our deficit.

Date: _9 th of August_. Purchaser: _Severa_. Gold: _906_. Reason: _Candles_.

I read and reread that line several times, praying to all the gods that I had suddenly been struck with illiteracy for that would have been preferable to Severa spending nine-hundred and six entire gold pieces on…candles. When it was evident that the gods were not going to answer my prayer (they never do), I slowly removed my glasses and began massaging my temples. I could already feel the headache encroaching on the edges of my mind.

However, it is futile to delay the inevitable and so I squared my shoulders, plucked the purchase logs for my arsenal, and marched off to face whatever battle Severa and I would engage in.

Standing outside of her dormitory door in the women’s wing, I yet again questioned if this confrontation would really be worth it. Now diary, I enjoy a spirited intellectual debate all in good faith as much as the next man, but arguing with Severa is akin to shoving my face in a badger’s den. Under different circumstances, I would admire her sharp wit and even sharper tongue, appreciate the way she skillfully identifies her opponent’s weakest points and mercilessly tears into them. I will admit she has perfected the art of verbal sparring. Nevertheless, in these instances I prefer to be a spectator rather than the one on the receiving end of her tirades. I almost turned around and accepted the preemptive loss after I imagined her shredding me to ribbons with her words, but as I have stated before, I am no coward. Plus, I could very nearly hear each of the nine-hundred and six gold pieces crying out to me.

I rapped at her chamber door.

“Who’s there?” Severa called from inside, clearly not planning to find out for herself.

I took one final deep breath before replying. “’Tis I, Laurent. I must speak with you if you have a moment,” I said, attempting to be as polite as possible.

The only response was a drawn-out groan, a sentiment I shared as well. However, I had come here with a purpose and I am not so easily dissuaded.

“Severa really, I do not wish to keep you for long, but I refuse to stand out here and converse with the door,” I asserted.

Another groan. “Go away Laurent!”

Naga preserve me. “Severa, we both know that I will stand sentry outside this door for hours if need be. Now, save us both the effort and let us get this over with.” Losing my patience already did not bode well for this entire conversation (and for me).

Her final groan was accompanied by the sound of the latch. “What do you want?” she snapped, glaring up at me.

“Might I come in?” I asked pointedly, not wanting all the women in the Shepherds to witness what was coming.

Severa rolled her eyes but turned back into her room, leaving the door ajar for me to enter. “Ugh, sure, whatever,” she grumbled over her shoulder, “Is this about the candles?”

Ah, straight to the point. Excellent.

“Astutely deduced,” I responded as I shut the door and turned to face her. “I could not help but notice that the candles you purchased were extremely over budget. Normally I buy the candles for the army from Paolo, who gives me the superb deal of three candles per one gold. Did Paolo go out of business?” – I wanted to at least give her the benefit of the doubt (gods be my witness) – “If so, then please allow me to strike an accordance with another chandler so that we might mitigate such losses in the future and –”

“Shut up, Laurent!” Severa interrupted with a shout, “By the gods, it’s exhausting just listening to you talk!”

That comment stung, but it had the intended effect, for I snapped my mouth closed.

“No I didn’t buy them from Paul or whoever,” she continued, “And the guy I bought them from gave me a pretty good deal for them if I do say so myself. There’s no way you’d get one-hundred and fifty-one candles like that for a lower price.” She crossed her arms, a self-satisfied look etched across her features.

One-hundred and fifty-one candles? But at a total of nine-hundred and six gold pieces, then that means that each candle cost – “Six gold per candle?!” I swear to you diary, I very nearly fainted. “What candle costs six entire gold pieces? Is it made of gold and as tall as I?”

Severa stuck her tongue out at me. “No idiot, they’re perfumed.”

I stated at her in disbelief, rubbing at my temples yet again. We lost nearly one thousand gold for…perfumed candles.

Uncomfortable with my stunned silence, Severa darted her eyes from mine. “I was tired of my tent always smelling like musty, moldy sweat – and I bet everyone else is too – so I bought perfumed candles to make everyone’s tent smell better while we’re on the road.”

Her explanation did little to quell my rising irritation. “You mean you purchased perfumed candles at nearly thrice the budgeted rate because your tent was what, stinky?!” I could not help the increasing frustration that seeped into my voice.

“Ug, go jump in a lake, you weirdo!” she snarled. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Oh ‘not that big of a deal’ you say,” I mocked, feeling my temper slip through my fingers and spiral out of my control. “We might as well swallow down all that excess gold and excrete it out our derrieres if we want to waste money so desperately!”

She grimaced, coming up to me and pushing me in the chest. “Ew! That’s disgusting!”

“Well I am disgusted by your gross squandering of our precious resources!” I barked, regaining my footing after her shove. “You really should be like your mother Panne, for she understands the value of utilitarianism and the bare essentials.”

Looking into Severa’s mahogany eyes, I could see that I had gone too far with that last comment, but it too late to try and reign in my ire.

With her shoulders shaking and her fists clenched so tight her knuckles turned white, Severa stalked up to me until we were just a handbreadth way from each other. Although I am more than a head taller than the girl, I knew in that moment I was outmatched.

“How _dare_ you say that,” she seethed, “Not everyone wants to be just like their stupid moms, _Laurent_. In fact, I don’t know why she even had you, ‘cause nobody needs an obnoxious exact copy of her running around and making people miserable.”

Her words cut like daggers into my chest. There it was, Severa’s greatest strength: the gift to find the most vulnerable parts of one’s soul and wrench them open in order to pour salt all over the wounds. Gone was the little boy who would cry at words such as those, but – despite more than a decade of pain and heartache – I still was as defenseless today as I was all those years ago. I gave up.

“Fine,” I whispered, “I revoke your Treasury privileges. You are no longer able to access the Shepherd’s funds without my express permission and surveillance.”

Severa took a step back. “What? You can’t do that!” she screeched.

I straightened my glasses and dusted off my robes. “I believe you will find that I can.”

Disbelief and horror crawled across her face. “I’m telling Lucina!” She cried, sounding much like a little child threatening to tattle. As I said before, gone was the little boy who cared about such threats. He died a long time ago.

“Please do, although you will find that all you have accomplished was wasting the princess’ – and your own – time. Lucina has made me Treasurer and placed her trust in my jurisdiction over the matter.” I turned towards the door.

I heard a growl of frustration before I felt a small hand roughly encircle my wrist. “Stop, don’t do this!” she barked.

“It is too late. Good day.” I jerked my arm over my head, breaking her grip (and nearly my wrist at the same time). 

“Wait, does that include my monthly allowance?” she asked, voice tinged with a little panic.

I ignored her and continued out the door. She was a smart girl, she would figure it out.

“Laurent, STOP!” Severa screamed as she ran after me into the hallway.

“Hey! You kids alright? There’s a whole bunch of yelling going on.”

I turned to see Sully sticking her head out a door two rooms down from Severa’s (thinking back, I am almost certain it was Gyldowen’s room). Her eyes were narrowed as she looked between the two of us, ready to step in the middle in need be.

Before Severa could even open her mouth, I had already dipped into a sweeping bow. “My apologies for the disturbance, Sully,” I said cordially, “I was just leaving. Good day.”

With that, I strode out of the women’s section, leaving a sputtering Severa in my wake.

I spent the rest of the day locked in the Treasury, rebalancing the budget to account for the missing gold. Loathe as I was to do it, I had to make cuts to the food budget to make up the deficit. I simply could not skimp on the vulneraries and I had already paid for the horses and pegasi to be reshoed. I even gave up my monthly allowance to mitigate the blow to the grocery money.

So engrossed was I in trying to make the sums equal that I missed the evening meal. Luckily, Morgan brought me some leftovers (what a good friend) and chattered about his day as I put the finishing touches on everything.

“Do you know if Lucina has retired for the evening?” I asked, gathering all my ledgers, budgets, and reports.

Morgan cocked his head to the side. “I don’t think so,” he replied, “I think she and Kjelle went to her room after dinner.”

I raised my eyebrows at that, dear diary, hoping that I would not be…interrupting…anything. But the sooner the Treasury report was out of my hands and into hers, the better, so I thanked Morgan for his thoughtfulness and my dinner before once again heading to the women’s dormitory.

Despite being the princess and the heir to the halidom, Lucina’s room was the same as any other Shepherd’s (I have always admired that about her). I knocked on the door, waiting a moment before I heard Lucina’s voice softly call, “Enter.”

The fragrance of tea wafted through the room from the tiny porcelain pot between the two women who smiled at me as I approached their little table. I must confess diary, that the sight of big bulky Kjelle holding a dainty little teacup brightened my mood slightly.

“Well looked who the cat dragged in,” Kjelle drawled, setting down her cup and leaning back in her chair. “Where were you? I missed my skinny little record keeper at training this afternoon.”

Blast. With all my focus on the Treasury, today’s training totally slipped my mind.

“Good evening to you both,” I greeted, “And my sincerest apologies Kjelle. I was working in the Treasury and lost track of time.”

Kjelle looked me over for a moment, trying to keep a stern face even as the corners of her mouth kept twitching up. “Alright, I’ll let it slide this time,” she teased, “But if it happens again I’ll make you do five extra laps with Cynthia on your back. She’d love it.”

I grimaced, shuddering, and vowed never to miss a training again to avoid such a cruel fate.

After a good hearty chuckle at that, Lucina’s eyes drifted to the books and papers tucked under my arm. “Are those the budgets I asked for?”

“Indeed,” I replied, placing them carefully on the nearby desk, not wanting to disturb their tea party, “I apologize for the delay. There was…an unexpected expense that I needed to account for.”

Lucina nodded in understanding. “Ah yes, Severa already told me about it. Speaking of, would you mind stepping outside for a moment? There is something I would like to discuss.”

Before I could respond, Kjelle stood up from the table. “Don’t worry about me, I’ll go get some snacks so you and Mr. Moneyman here can talk business.” She paused at the doorframe, shooting me a warning glare as she crossed her arms. “Don’t you try anything hinky while I’m gone.”

I placed a hand on my chest, aghast. “Perish the thought! I would never –” I gasped, but Lucina just burst out laughing.

“Stop teasing poor Laurent and go get me a scone!” she ordered between giggles.

Kjelle dipped low in a sarcastic bow. “As my liege commands,” she laughed before heading out the door.

“She gets that from her mother you know, the teasing,” Lucina explained as she caught her breath.

I smiled ruefully. “Which one?”

That widened her grin. “Well Gyldowen obviously. No one can make my father flustered like she can.” (I would have to agree with her, dearest diary, for I had seen the tactician metaphorically pull the Exalt’s leg on more than one occasion.)

However, Lucina’s mirth fell away from her face after a moment. She gestured for me to take Kjelle’s unoccupied seat before asking, “So what happened today? Severa already spoke with me but I would appreciate hearing your side of the story as well.”

I sat, dreading this conversation but also feeling righteous in my position. “Well, far be it from me to speak ill of our companions,” I began, “But Severa and I had an argument. I merely wanted to consult her about an extremely over-budget purchase of candles that she made yesterday. She was…uncooperative and antagonistic… to say the least, which resulted in her loss of Treasury privileges.”

Lucina fixed me with an expectant look, knowing there was more to the story.

I adjusted my glasses. “I will admit that we _both_ exchanged heated words. However, I assure you that her loss of access to the Treasury was not the result of a petty ploy to get back at her. I have myriad evidence demonstrating how irresponsible she is with the Shepherd’s money.”

The princess sighed, looking worn. I feel for her, for as many burdens as I bear, I cannot fathom the weight she must carry.

“No need Laurent, I believe you,” she said softly, “I understand that Severa is not as frugal as she probably ought to be. I just hope that one day the two of you will stop fighting.”

I looked to the side before meeting her eyes again, the Brand of the Exalt shining in the candlelight. “Trust me, I wish for the same.”

Lucina nodded. “Well thank you for all your hard work as Treasurer, Laurent. Nobody could do it like you do.”

I smiled a little at the praise. “It is my pleasure,” I bowed my head before standing. “Now if you would please excuse me, I have already misappropriated enough of your time and interrupted your lovely evening tea with Kjelle.” Were I Inigo, I might have added a wink. Even without such a gesture, my words caused a faint blush to spread across her cheeks. And so I bid her goodnight before exiting her chambers.

Walking across the barrack grounds to my own dormitory, I ruminated on what Lucina had said. The princess was right of course dear diary. It would make everyone’s lives easier – mine and Severa’s especially – if we were not constantly at each other’s throats. Yet no matter how hard I try to be cordial and mature, we always end up in an argument (Severa’s biting words do nothing to help our cause). It is as if there is something so oppositional in our very natures that repels the other, like two halves of what Grandmother called ‘magnets’. 

I let out a long exhale before entering my room. At least with Severa’s Treasury privileges now revoked, my job of Treasurer will come with less headaches.

The 10th of August, year 2611 (Day 1,935 in the Past)

Dear Diary,

Last night, I assumed that with Severa lacking access to the Treasury, she would cause me less headaches. Oh how naïve I was.

Scarcely had I finished my breakfast when Severa approached me, scowl on her face and hands on her hips.

I nodded to her before attempting to walk past, but she quickly blocked my way.

“Not so fast, jerk,” she glared, “Apparently _somebody_ made it so that I can’t access my allowance without your approval, so you’re coming shopping with me today.”

I blinked a few times, before having to expend nearly all of my willpower to keep myself from burying my face in my hands. “Must we do this today?” I asked, in what was – I promise you dear diary – _not_ a whine. I had been planning on spending the morning with Gerome, discussing the best ways to protect our wyverns and other flyers from wind spells. Although I am pleased that Gerome took my advice and now spends more time with our fellow time-travelers, his increased interactions mean a decrease in his need for my reports, thus making the time we spend as just the two of us even more precious. 

Severa just looked at me, her scowl rivaling Brady’s. “Uh _yeah_ it has to be today,” she explained as if I were the densest simpleton in the world. “I just heard from Anna that some traveling merchants are in the city right now and I want to see what they have before everything sells out!”

If spending time with Gerome was at the top of my list of delightful activities, then shopping with Severa was most assuredly at the bottom (even below listening to Owain name weapons or doing anything in the near vicinity of Tharja). But I had said that she would require my presence when spending money, and I, Laurent, son of Miriel, am a man of my word. 

“Very well,” I consented, “But on one condition: we must return in time for Kjelle’s training this afternoon.”

Severa shot me a hard look before shrugging. “I guess. She’s way scarier than you anyway.”

On this I would have to agree (not that I would ever tell her that).

“Well then let us withdraw your money and head to market,” I said, opening the door of the dining hall for her. She just huffed and blew past me, sauntering towards the Treasury. Behind her back, I quickly prayed for the gods to grant the strength I needed to endure these errands.

Yet again the gods proved to be deaf to my pleas, for only an hour into the shopping expedition I started to lose my grip on my patience. At every opportunity, Severa found a way to passive-aggressively insult me on everything from my clothes to my hair to the manner in which I walk. Not a single one of my characteristics made it past her mocking words unscathed. Now I am as aware and accepting of my own flaws as the next person, but there is only so much a man can take. Father had taught me about sticks and stones, but these words were poisoned arrows loosed with the skill of a sniper.

It is on this constant barrage of insults I will place the blame for causing me to open my foolish mouth.

“Are you sure those are necessary?” I questioned Severa as she held up yet another pair of earrings to her ears in front of what felt like the eightieth shop’s mirror. 

“What did you just say?” she asked dangerously, turning slowly to me.

Blast, I was doing so well up until this point. “I was merely suggesting that the few gold you have left be put towards something with more practical value,” I said as mildly as I could manage (which I will admit, was not very mildly at all).

Severa sneered at me. “Well I don’t remember asking your opinion, _Laurent_ ,” – the way she always said my name made it sound like a curse – “and anyway, I don’t want to be a boring cheapskate like you.”

I frowned. “I see my utilitarianism as a virtue.”

My statement was met with a long-suffering groan. “Would it kill you to talk normally for once in your pathetic life?”

I opened my mouth to point out that this was how I customarily spoke, but Severa beat me to the chase.

“Anyway you have no right not complain. It’s your fault we’re stuck shopping together in the first place.”

Now diary, that simply was not true. “My fault?” I asked incredulously, “Was I the one who wasted nearly one thousand gold on perfumed candles? No! If I recall correctly, that was you, _Severa_.”

Her face flushed with anger and she started shaking once again. “Oh this again? Would you give it a rest? You may think they’re a waste, but just you wait until the entire camp is singing my praises ‘cause we don’t have to sleep in tents that smell like a swamp anymore.”

“The only one complaining about the odor of the tents is you,” I countered, “And there’s no way you could possibly use one-hundred and fifty-one candles all by yourself!”

“Shut up!” she barked, “What’s the big deal? So you had to do some more math, I though lame nerds like you loved math.”

At that, I let out a shaky exhale, jaw clenching tight like a vice. “The big deal is that the majority of the money you squandered had to come out of our food budget. I even gave up may monthly allowance so that we might afford sufficient food,” I gritted out.

“Boo hoo,” Severa mocked, “Everybody cry for the poor martyr.”

“I am not trying to paint myself as a martyr!” I exclaimed. “I am only attempting to show you the consequences of your irresponsible spending.”

Severa stepped closer to me as if coming in for the kill. “Why are you so worried about the food? We always have enough. Is it ‘cause you want to stuff your face like your stupid dad?”

Red flashed before my eyes and before I could stop myself, I was growling like a beast. “I care so much because I am intimately acquainted with the agony of hunger that comes when the money runs out!”

It is true, dearest diary, that I am no longer as emaciated as I was those five long years in the desert (when money was scarce and food even scarcer). However, my slender frame still feels the consequences of malnourishment and my mind still conjures nightmares about desperately eating maggoty bread. How dare she. How dare she act like we all had the luxury of growing up amid plenty.

My words – or my tone – seemed to have stunned her for a moment, but before I could revel in the silence, she bristled, even angrier than before.

“Oh, your life is _so hard_. Well at least your mom loved you, unlike either of mine!” she screamed.

At that, the shopkeeper stormed over to us. “Hey mister, take your girlfriend and argue somewhere else!”

Before I could say anything in response, Severa cut in. “As if I would lower myself to date someone as ugly and pathetic…you know what? Fine! I’m out of here! I was just leaving anyway.”

With that she ran out of the shop and I swear I caught a glimpse of tears trailing down her cheeks before the door slammed after her.

“Wow, she sure is a spitfire, isn’t she?” the shopkeeper shrugged at me.

“My apologies for the disturbance,” I found myself saying for the second consecutive day before exiting the shop in pursuit of Severa.

I found her hunched over on one of the benches facing the fountain in the marketplace square. Citizens and merchants alike swirled past her, but no one seemed to notice her at all. Upon closer inspection, I realized that she was crying. Diary, I could never live with myself if I abandoned her in such a state and so I went over and sat next to her, burying my uncomfortable feelings at seeing someone cry.

We sat there for some time, the two of us, until Severa’s sobs began to subside slightly.

“I don’t think Panne ever loved me,” she began confessing without ever raising her head, and the sudden quiet rawness in her voice seemed to freeze me. “She’s always preferred Yarne over me. I don’t even know why my moms had me, they already had Yarne and he’s a taguel and all they ever wanted, so why have me?”

Her words mirrored the hurtful things she had said about me the day before, and I began to understand her venom a little bit better.

Severa kept speaking, a waterfall of hurt spilling forth from her lips. “I’m always in somebody’s shadow, whether it’s my brother’s or my mom’s, it doesn’t matter. Somedays I think that if I just disappeared, nobody would even really care. And why would they? Yarne and my mom are just better versions of me without all the snark and barbs.” After a pause, she added, even more softly, “I know you would be better off without me insulting you all the time.”

I let her speech wash through me for a moment, trickling through my cracks and resonating with some of the most tender scars on my heart. Ah, there was that gift of hers again.

“Believe it or not,” I said gingerly, pulling out my handkerchief to offer to her but not turning to look at her (it is easier not to look when you are spilling the contents of your soul), “I might be the one person who can fully sympathize with you. I know what it is like to constantly live in your mother’s shadow. You were right yesterday, I am just a replica of her, and an inferior one at that.” The chuckle that burbled up in me was a bitter one.

Severa took the handkerchief, wiping her eyes and blowing her nose before fixing me with a glare from the corner of her eye. I do not know what she saw in my face, but after a moment or two, her gaze softened a little. “Yeah, I guess you would know what I’m talking about,” she said, a rueful smile pulling at the corners of her lips. I responded with a shrug of my shoulders and a hum. 

Again we sat next to each other without speaking for a time, watching the people in the market bustle past, but this silence was slightly more companionable, less fraught with tears. Eventually Severa seemed to compose herself, tucking my handkerchief into one of her pockets. “I’ll wash this before giving it back,” she whispered.

“Much appreciated,” I replied.

Then she shifted on the bench to fully face me, her usual condescending frown returned to her face. “Don’t expect an apology from me. You’re still a stupid loser who’s wound so tight it’s a wonder you don’t just snap in half,” she insulted, but her words lacked all their customary bite.

I could not help but smile before retorting, “Understood. And you should know that I have no intention of returning your Treasury privileges until I see indisputable proof that you have learned to spend our money more wisely.”

She gave me a curt nod. “Well I guess we finally understand each other now,” she stated simply, but I could sense the deeper meaning to her words below the surface.

I stood, tidying my robes and repositioning my glasses before I offered my hand to help her up. After a second of consideration, she took it and it was almost as if we were shaking on a compromise.

“We should probably head back to the barracks now or we’ll miss Kjelle’s training,” Severa suggested before turning towards home.

“I concur wholeheartedly,” I agreed, setting a brisk pace, “Kjelle made a threat that I have no intention on allowing her to see through.”

At that Severa grinned, a wolf catching the scent of its prey. “Oh? What threat? You’ve gotta tell me!”

Ah, let the games begin. “Never,” I responded, and we bickered lightheartedly all the way back from the market.

Despite our best effort, we still arrived late to training. As punishment, Kjelle hoisted Cynthia onto my back after everyone had finished their regiments for the day. I will admit dearest diary, the woman had been right: Cynthia enjoyed herself thoroughly, giggling and shouting, “Onward noble steed!” the entire two laps. When my penance was paid and I collapsed trembling to the ground, Lucina and Morgan helped me to my feet while everyone laughed (even Gerome allowed the ghost of a smile to cross his handsome face, making the entire ordeal worth it). However, none snickered harder than Severa and yet for the first time, I did not feel like it was an attack. Once everyone had caught their breaths – including myself – we all made our way jovially to the dining hall for dinner.

Today, diary, I was reminded of a crucial fact. It was my own vanity that kept me from seeing the truth: that we are all wounded creatures, trauma etched into our vulnerable hearts. Therefore, survival calls for us to hide our defaced souls lest they become the targets for more pain. Gerome hides his scars behind his mask, Inigo behind his skirt-chasing, Kjelle behind her armor, and Yarne…well Yarne just plain hides. Severa uses her prickly demeanor and cutting tongue to shield her insecurities and feelings of inferiority, but I am in no place to judge her, for I am the guiltiest of us all. I hide my fragile humanity behind my extensive vocabulary, self-proclaimed logic, and disingenuous air of self-confidence, all wrapped up in my mother’s hat. I am thankful that Severa reminded me of this truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is called "National Severa Roasts Laurent Day" in my notes ^.^ 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! This chapter was really fun to write. 
> 
> I would like to write a chapter for each of the kids plus some of my favorite first gen Shepherds, so let me know if you have any ideas for future chapters!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Volume VI: Owain  
> Laurent is given an overwhelming task and finds help in an unexpected place.

The 22nd of August, year 2611 (Day 1,947 in the Past)

Dear Diary,

Tomorrow we leave Ylisstol to embark on the next campaign in another attempt to save the future. While our brief stay in the capitol has been a welcome respite from the constant marching and fighting that make up the life of a Shepherd, I will admit that I am anxious to set off once again. I did not travel back in time and face myriad hardships just to lounge around as if every passing day does not bring us closer to our doom, pleasant as it may be. 

Thus, today was a flurry of activity as all the Shepherds prepared for our departure, myself included. Of all the traits I inherited from Mother (and believe me there are countless) I lament that I did not obtain her extraordinary gift for packing. No matter how I hard I try, I always end up leaving an important item behind or forgetting that I already packed something several times so that I have superfluous amounts of a single item (both of these scenarios have happened with my smallclothes more often than I care to admit). I even swallowed my pride and asked Mother of her secret technique, to which she replied, “organization is key!” and then continued on her way.

It was during my frantic packing – I even compiled a list for the occasion – when I heard an unexpected knock at my door early in the morning.

Silently bemoaning the state of my room, I opened the door to see Lucina on the other side, fist raised as if to knock again.

“Salutations, Lucina,” I greeted, ushering her inside, “What a delightful surprise. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

She gifted me a warm smile. “Hello Laurent. I apologize for interrupting your packing…” she looked around my dormitory, which I will admit appeared as if it had been hit with an Elwind spell, “but I need to ask you about the reports you gave me last week.”

My reports? “I hope you found them satisfactory,” I responded as I adjusted my glasses, already wracking my brain for anything that could have been amiss.

Seeming to detect my apprehension over the quality of my work, Lucina placed a gentle hand on my arm. “Oh yes, your reports were as thorough as always,” she praised, putting me slightly at ease, “I was just wondering if while you took stock of the armory, you happened to record which weapons were ready for battle and which need to be repaired.”

Blast. Although I kept an overall tally of how many weapons needed repairing or upgrading during the inventory I conducted for my budget, I did not note which _specific_ ones were in suboptimal condition. A foolish oversight, for I should have been more meticulous.

I bowed deeply, regret adding its weight around my shoulders. “My humblest apologies Lucina, for I did not specify which weapons were which. Please forgive my irresponsibility.”

At my words, Lucina’s eyes grew wide, the Brand of the Exalt even more pronounced. “Oh Laurent you have nothing to apologize for!” she exclaimed. “Your reports were perfectly detailed. Normally this wouldn’t be a problem, but the solider who normally takes care of this is ill. Thus we don’t have anyone to pack the armory and no one knows which weapons we should bring. I was just wondering if you had that information on hand, but don’t worry.”

Despite her best efforts, Lucina’s words did little to comfort me. However, I saw an opportunity to redeem myself. “Allow me,” I began to explain, “To right my blunder and take on the duty of packing the armory, since it seems that it is lacking its usual caretaker. That way I will be able to generate a more comprehensive report on the status of our weapons while preparing for our journey tomorrow, rather efficient if I might say so.” I smiled expectantly, waiting for her permission to enact my plan.

“Well…it would take a load off of my shoulders if you took care of it,” she reasoned, “but it is a daunting task. Are you sure you can do it all by yourself?”

“I am quite sure I will be able to enlist the aid of one of our companions,” I replied, already assembling a list of possible allies in my head.

Lucina let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you so much Laurent. I have so much I need to do today in order to prepare and adding the armory on top was just overwhelming.” She smiled gratefully.

“’Tis my pleasure, I am glad to be of assistance,” I responded. Gathering up my ledger and quill, I escorted her to the door.

“If I see anyone who isn’t busy, I’ll send them to help you,” Lucina said before we bid each other farewell. While I appreciated her offer, I did not think it necessary at the time. Oh dearest diary, how wrong I was.

The first candidate on my list of possible helpers was Morgan. Although I think of him as one of my dearest friends, the past few weeks he had been busy helping his mother at the War Council, thus leaving us very little time to spend together outside of Kjelle’s trainings and meals. I was beginning to miss his optimistic outlook on every situation, and if there was anyone in the New Generation Shepherds who could devise the perfect strategy for efficiently inventorying the armory, it would be him.

Unfortunately, he was not in his dormitory and so I set off to the second most likely location: the Library. I was halfway across the courtyard, already dreading having to march in the dreadful late-summer heat, when – 

“Hark! Is that Laurent I spy over yonder hill? The gods of fortune must be smiling upon me on this auspicious day!”

Dear diary, I promise that I did not groan – aloud at least, that would be rude – when I heard Owain calling me. The thought that if I stayed very still, he would forget about me, flitted across my mind but was immediately discarded when I heard his footsteps galloping up to me. I quickly composed my features before I turned with a cordial smile fixed on my countenance.

“Greetings Owain. Do you have need of me?” I inquired.

My query was met with a raucous laugh from Owain. “Ho ho! You are sorely mistaken my good man, for it is _you_ who has need of _me_!”

Skepticism raised my eyebrow without my permission. “Do I?”

“But of course my big-hatted friend! I have just spoken with the fair princess of these lands and she relayed to me that you require my expertise for your quest in the armory,” he explained, striking a dramatic – and wholly unnecessary – pose.

For all the gods’ sakes…if I had known _this_ was the assistance she was speaking of, I would have turned Lucina down immediately and with haste.

“While your offer is appreciated…” I began slowly, attempting to concoct a polite way to refuse, “I will not require your aid for I am already soliciting the help of Morgan. His strategic mind would be a great asset for my inventory.”

To my surprise, Owain took the refusal well, nodding in understanding. “I see, you are very wise to seek out another member of the Justice Cabal, for we members will always help those in need!”

I could not halt my curiosity. “Justice Cabal?” I asked.

Owain’s face positively lit up, and I immediately regretted my inquiry. “Alas!” he cried, “For it seems that the heroic tales of the gallant Justice Cabal have not reached your unhappy ears. The Justice Cabal is the eternal friendship between the heroine Cynthia Sky-Flier, Morgan the Unmatched Tactician, and myself, Owain Dark, Avenger of Righteous Justice! By our powers combined, our valiant deeds shall become legends passed down by countless generations! Down, sword hand, down!” He clutched his right hand melodramatically, nearly panting from all the shouting and excitement.

I merely stared at him in disbelief. Dearest diary, how could he say those things with such a straight face? I began to understand what Severa meant when she said it is exhausting listening to me speak; I felt the same way then after paying mild attention to Owain’s tirade. At least I am not as delusional as he.

I coughed, not knowing how to respond to any of that. “I see, I might have heard you and Cynthia talking about that during mealtimes, now that you mention it.” He beamed, and I felt that I had said the correct thing. “Now if you would please excuse me, I really must speak with Morgan. Good day.” 

“Farewell, Laurent, and may the gods smile on you and your stupendous task!” He bent into a sweeping bow before charging away. Naga only knows where he gets all his energy. 

I allowed myself a moment to gently rub at my temples before continuing towards the Library.

As luck would have it, I found Morgan wrestling the large double doors while laden with several tomes. I rushed forward and stopped one door from toppling the redhead and the books to the ground.

“Phew! Thanks Laurent,” he beamed, adjusting the books in his arms, “I’m glad you came along when you did or I might’ve gotten grass-stains on all these covers.”

“’Tis no trouble at all,” I said with a smile, “Might I help you?” I gestured to the precarious stack of books.

Morgan nodded enthusiastically. “Please! I’m taking these all to my mother in her study.”

I lifted half the tomes from his arms and we both set off towards the main hall.

As we walked, Morgan began to chat. “So how’s your day? Busy getting ready to leave tomorrow?”

“Quite,” I replied, “And in addition I have been tasked with preparing the armory for departure, since the usual caretaker has fallen ill.”

Morgan whistled at that. “That’s a big job!” 

“Indeed,” I agreed with a nod, “Which is why I was wondering if I might solicit your aid in the endeavor. With the two of us, it would be much less overwhelming.”

He turned to me, eyebrows scrunched up in apology. “I’m so sorry Laurent, but I’ve already promised my mother to help her plan all the marching formations for tomorrow.”

My heart sank a little, but I could not fault him for having made previous arrangements. “That’s alright, I am sure I will be able to find somebody else.” After a pause I murmured, “I just miss spending time with you.”

“Awww!” he exclaimed, a bright grin spreading across his face, “I’ll try to stop by and help after dinner, though I still need to pack…”

“No, no, do not fret about it,” I countered, shaking my head as we began to ascend the stairs that lead to the officers’ studies.

“Alright, if you insist,” he conceded. After a moment he leaned over and bumped me playfully in the shoulder with his own. “I miss you too.”

My lips twitched upwards as a faint flush spread across my cheeks. We conversed amicably about packing until we reached Gyldowen’s office, where I bid him farewell.

Since Morgan was otherwise indisposed, I turned my attention towards finding the next best candidate: Brady.

I found the gruff healer sitting outside the infirmary, head buried in his hands. I approached him cautiously, as if he were a newborn deer, hoping that he was not in fact crying (no matter how many times it happens, I cannot supersede my terribly uncomfortable feelings when people cry in my near vicinity). I waited for him to notice my presence but after a few moments it was clear that I needed to announce myself.

I cleared my throat. “Err…Good morning, Brady,” I greeted awkwardly, and the priest’s head snapped up, tears glistening in tracks down his cheeks.

“Wha? Oh hey Laurent…” he sniffled, face red as he rubbed his eyes furtively. 

I did not particularly want to, but for the sake of our growing friendship, I asked, “Are you quite alright?”

He nodded, shuffling to his feet and burying his hand in his robes. “Yeah yeah I’m fine. It’s jus’ I saw this lil’ ladybug and it’s tiny wing was bent n’ all…know wha’ it’s none ya beeswax!” He glowered.

My hands shot up in a placating gesture. “You are correct,” I agreed, “It is none of my concern.”

After staring at me through squinted eyes, he shrugged the whole matter off. “So whacha doin’ here?” he asked. “You’re not sick, are ya?”

I shook my head. “No, I am currently in perfect condition thank you for asking. Actually, I came seeking your help in inventorying the armory with me.”

To my dismay, Brady’s shoulders slumped even more than usual (which could not have been good for his spinal health, but I digress). “’M sorry Laurent. Right now I’m already helpin’ Ma n’ Mama pack all our healin’ supplies.” His eyes began to mist once again. “Sorry ta disappoint…”

“Do not agonize yourself over it, it was just an idea,” I tried to smile winningly despite this adverse turn in my fate. 

It was in that moment we heard a prim and shrill voice call out from the infirmary. “Brady? Where have you gone? I hope for your sake that you are not crying over that insect once again!”

We both winced at the tone before Brady yelled back, “I’m outside Ma! I’m talkin’ to Laurent!”

Maribelle’s voice shot back at us. “Well if you have time to converse with the commoners, then you have time to be helping me in here!”

“Maribelle!” Lissa’s voice scolded from inside, “You can’t just say that about the poor boy, that’s rude!”

The woman in question popped her head out of the doorway, curls bouncing. “My apologies for any offence,” she clipped, nose in the air.

I bowed my head in deference, knowing how to soothe a noble’s ego. “None taken, Lady Maribelle,” I replied politely. 

Although she gave a huff, a slight grin twitched at her lips. “Well at least _somebody_ has some manners,” she glared at her son. “Are you coming back inside or not?”

“Yeah yeah hold yer horses, Ma,” Brady groaned, “I’ll be in in a minute.”

A storm cloud passed in front of Maribelle’s face and she opened her mouth in preparation to rip Brady to shreds when Lissa hastily pulled her wife back into the infirmary with an apologetic smile (thank the gods).

With both his mothers safely sequestered inside, Brady turned back to me. “So I can’t help ya, but ya know who could? Owain. Lil’ bro is always in there namin’ his swords ‘n whatnot.”

As if I would ever ask for Owain’s assistance, but I couldn’t tell Brady that now could I diary? Instead I shrugged and smiled. “Perhaps,” I responded vaguely. Then my eyes drifted back to the doorway. “Best of luck to you, it seems as if you will need it.”

Brady slumped in resignation, but shot me a grin, “Yea no kiddin’ huh. You too, buddy” He gave me a little wave before heading inside.

Turning my back on the piercing yells from inside the building, I reevaluated my entire plan. Thus far, the two people I would have liked to spend time completing this arduous task with were otherwise occupied, leaving me with naught but a wasted morning. I would have to start working soon if I wanted to accomplish anything before the midday meal. I sighed and began walking towards the armory.

Passing by the wyvern stable, I was struck with an idea. I could ask Gerome. No one takes managing the New Generation Shepherds as seriously as he (well maybe except for Lucina and myself), and he is quite the diligent worker. Plus, spending time with him always makes my day a little more pleasant, no matter what task we are engaged in.

Lauding myself for such a wonderful idea, I set a brisk pace for the men’s dormitories.

It seemed that my luck was looking up for a moment when I spotted the door to Gerome’s room ajar. However upon closer inspection, I could see him and his mother silently darning soldiers’ uniforms (and in a moment of distraction my heart was set aflutter by the sight of Gerome's sleeves rolled up to the elbows and his bare forearms). From the looks of concentration painted across their faces and the rather large pile of clothes at their feet, it was clearly evident what his answer would be. Dejected, I turned away, not wanting to interrupt their sewing. 

It was then when I realized a certain pattern: most (if not all) the New Generation Shepherds were engaged in assisting their mothers prepare for our journey the coming day. Except me. I tried to imagine what Mother was doing at that moment. She would most likely be serenely packing an obscene amount of books into her numerous chests. She would not need my help, and despite her best intentions, she would quickly bore of helping me in the armory, a task too meticulous and dull to capture her intellect. Nevertheless, I am used to taking care of things without her assistance and yet I could not fathom the reason why in that instant I felt lonelier than I have in over a month. Oh well, such is my fate.

Despite my heavy heart and a distinct lack of any allies, I hurried to the armory to begin my inventory. Diary, I cannot begin to describe my surprise when I opened the door to our arsenal, only to find Owain already hard at work!

Upon hearing the door open, the myrmidon turned to me with a grin. “At last!” he cried, “Upon the hill to the East on the fifth day, an ally appears to help turn the tides in this infernal battle! Come hither, dear mage, and let us vanquish this task together!”

His near incomprehensible words did nothing to assuage my confusion. Ignoring…whatever it was he was talking about, I tried to get to the heart of the matter. “Owain, what are you doing here?” I asked.

He looked at me as if I were a simpleton (and perhaps I was in that instance). “Has some fell curse robbed you of your sight, knave? I am on an epic quest to assess the state of our weapons! A quest that was bequeathed to you by our dear princess, if I recall, and one you have been neglecting.” He tutted at me, and I was stunned into silence. “How very unlike you, Laurent. But never fear, Owain Dark, Cataloger of a Thousand Swords is here to save the day!” He spun the Levin Sword currently in his hand around twice before twirling around with a flourish, striking his customary pose.

Dearest diary, I do believe that my mental facilities absconded for a few moments for I could not think of a single thing to say. After several stuttering attempts to regain myself, I managed to choke out a simple “Why?”

“Alas! You must be some foul imposter, for the true Laurent would never ask such idiotic questions!” Owain shouted. After seeing my utterly blank look of befuddlement, he continued, “I am doing this because I have been asked to, and a member of the Justice Cabal never turns down a comrade in need.”

It was then that I began to compile his words into something that resembled sense. Beneath all the fantasy and bravado, Owain was attempting to convey his desire to help me even though I so casually dismissed his aid earlier.

Reasoning that some help was better than none, I acquiesced. “Understood. I appreciate your initiative in getting started without me,” I thanked him. “Now what have you already completed?”

At my words, Owain’s face burst into a mirthful smile, brown eyes twinkling. “Laurent has joined the fray!” he cheered. Shoving a large notebook into my hands, he beamed. “Feast your eyes on this, wizard of the towering headgear!”

Ignoring whatever nonsense he had just called me I opened the notebook and began my perusal of its pages. For the second time today, I was stunned into silence. I could not believe my eyes dearest diary! In my hands I held a ledger very similar to my own, filled with detailed statistics on every weapon in the armory. He had taken note of it all, the weapon’s type, condition, the date of purchase, who wielded it last, everything! And of course, every blade, bow, and shield had a name scrawled next to its entry.

“This is incredible,” I whispered almost to myself. Then my awed eyes turned to my companion. “When did you last update this?”

Owain fixed me with a self-assured grin. “’Twas only last week when I completed my most recent check on our weapons, for if we nurture them as if they are our own children, then they will become our fiercest protectors in battle!”

Diary, it was as if I was seeing Owain for the first time. Before, I had always found his antics and speeches to be childish and irksome. However, the ledger that I held in my hand demonstrated that there was a responsible and meticulous side to him that I had never even fathomed. In that moment, I felt guilty for how easily I had dismissed his value as a helper today.

Determined to correct my error in judgement, I bowed deeply to the myrmidon. “Please forgive my previous behavior, Owain, for your work has considerably lessened my burden today.”

The man in question seemed to perk up even more (if that is even possible) at my words. “Owain the Gracious shall pardon you this time, fiend, but you are now forever in my debt! Let us swear a blood oath on the next full moon so that our destinies are forever intertwined!”

“Um, no thank you,” I responded. Even with this newfound facet of his personality, Owain was still Owain. “How about instead we get to work? I will follow your lead.”

Owain spun back to the racks of lances hanging on the nearest wall. “But of course! My sword hand cries out to feel the grips of unnamed blades. I will seek them out, and you shall record them in my Manual of Justice, my own personal scribe to ink my heroic exploits!”

I sighed but did as he directed.

Between the two of us, we were able to catalog and pack the armory just in time for dinner. Although my head hurt for all of Owain’s yelling (which he continued throughout the entire chore), I was extremely pleased with our accomplishment.

“I cannot thank you enough for your assistance in this Owain,” I said as we bundled the last batch of arrows. “Your ‘Manual of Justice’ is exemplary in how thorough and useful it is.”

Owain beamed back at me. “It is my duty as a hero, and your friend, to help those in need.”

Then he sighed, letting his energetic smile slip slightly. “To be honest,” he confessed in a voice softer than I had ever heard him use, “I sometimes wish the others would see how useful I can be…”

I felt a small pang in my chest at his words and at his expression. I know too well the feeling of having to prove my worth over and over to the ones I care about. It is an experience I would not wish on anyone, least of all Owain.

I nodded in understanding, when suddenly I was struck with a Bolting spell of inspiration.

“I believe I have devised the perfect manner in which to repay your assistance,” I said to him, excitement thrumming through my veins (oh dear, it seems as though I spent so much time with him that now he’s rubbing off on me). With that, I dashed out of the armory in search of Lucina.

After a quick conversation with the princess (she was very pleased with our work today), I sauntered into the dining hall, proud of my idea for Owain. I collected my dinner and then joined our companions at one of the long tables, sitting next to the myrmidon.

“Ho ho! ‘Tis Laurent!” he cried, brandishing his fork like a sword. “For what reason did you parlay with my dear cousin, future-Exalt extraordinaire?”

I could not halt the smile creeping across my face. “If you must know, we were discussing you. She has agreed to my idea and put you in charge of the armory. How does that sound, Owain Dark, Master of Arms?”

Now it was Owain’s turn to stare at me in shock. After a moment, he seemed to burst with happiness, wrapping me up in a crushing hug while chanting “thank you, thank you, thank you” over and over again.

Feeling the other’s eyes boring into me at such a display and worrying that Owain might actually snap me in half, I patted his shoulder as best I could manage and wheezed, “You’re very welcome.” 

Finally Owain released me (and I assure you diary I did not gasp for air). “You are a stalwart ally, Big Hat Laurent,” he grinned.

I shot him a look as cold as ice. “Do not ever call me that again.” 

“How about…Laurent the Wizard Wonder?” he suggested with a snicker.

“Absolutely not.”

“Oh I know!” he exclaimed after a second of thinking, “Laurent, Master of a Thousand Spells.”

Now that one wasn’t half bad, even if it was a slight exaggeration. “Fine,” I agreed with a dramatic sigh, but actually I was quite pleased with the moniker.

Our audience of our companions laughed at that. Then we all returned our attention to our meal, chatting about the preparations we had completed for the day.

In the end, I realize that I judged Owain too harshly, today and in the past. He really has an incredible talent for swordsmanship and weapon maintenance when he puts his mind to it. Hopefully he will grow into his role of Arms Master and show our fellow time-travelers this other side of him as well.

And at that, I must bid you goodnight dearest diary, for I still have things to pack for tomorrow’s journey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for reading! 
> 
> Chapter 7 is in the works and I've got a couple more ideas for future chapters. If you have a suggestion for a character or situation for a future chapter feel free to let me know! 
> 
> (P.S. did you catch my LoTR and Dark Souls references? lol)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Volume VII: Stahl  
> After a hard day, Laurent must confront his feelings for his father while cooking together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter deals with Laurent's trauma around losing his dad and then trying to build a relationship with the new timeline's version of Stahl, so it's a little sad (but a little tender too). 
> 
> Enjoy!

The 25th of August, year 2611 (Day 1,950 in the Past)

Dear Diary,

I have endured more than my fair share of vexatious days in my life. Between the apocalyptic future and the soul-crushingly lonesome years in the desert, I have grown accustomed to days where the only optimistic event of the entire twenty-four hours was that I made it through alive (and sometimes just barely). Although today was not nearly as grim as those days, it still had its own particular brand of dreadfulness. Dearest diary, today was the emotional equivalent to having a sharp stone caught in your shoe and no matter how many times you try, you cannot extract it. From the oppressive heat to the grueling march to the Risen attack, each subsequent hour become more and more irksome. And yet none of the events of the day could hold a candle to my evening with Father.

The entire unfortunate affair began while I was brushing down Rexcalibur after we had stopped to make camp for the night. I could tell my mount was displeased with me by his side-long glances and the manner in which his ears kept flicking backwards. I couldn’t even rightly blame him for his ire, for he is a war horse, trained to carry me in battle and hold fast in the face of destructive magic, not some simple pack mule, which was the role he played today. I even dismounted to walk alongside him during the hottest parts of the day to ease his burden a little, but my kindness was evidently found lacking in my steed’s eyes. It was while I was placating him, promising him a bucketful of apples upon our safe return to Ylisstol, that Frederick approached me and informed me that since our cook had been injured in the Risen attack, I had been assigned kitchen duty. Blast.

My day continued on its downward trajectory when I entered the already sweltering kitchen tent and discovered who was to be my cooking companion for the evening.

Father stood in the middle of the tent next to one of the chopping tables, already tying an apron over his tunic. When he heard me enter, he turned around and beamed, “Hello Laurent!”

“Good evening, Father,” I greeted, trying my best to match his smile. I did not want to be rude dear diary, but after the day I had already endured, I lacked the emotional energy to construct a flawless façade.

Fortunately, Father either ignored or did not mind my lackluster salutations, for he just handed me my own apron. “It looks like we’re going to be cooking buddies tonight!” he chuckled before turning to the recipes the cook left for us.

I expected him to follow up with something along the lines of _‘just like old times, huh?’_ , but then I realized, no, this version of Father wouldn’t say that. I sighed and tied the apron on myself, remembering a little boy whose Father would tie his apron for him a lifetime ago.

“What meal shall we be preparing tonight?” I inquired, looking over his shoulder at the stained papers, attempting to ignore the pain in my heart from seeing how much taller I am than him now.

He hummed, skimming over the pages and glancing over at the larder. “It doesn’t look too hard,” he mused, “some sort of rice dish and roast duck.” Then he turned to me, a question in his eyes. “How much do you know about cooking? I don’t mind doing most of the work if you don’t mind chopping.”

I shrugged. “Whatever way you prefer,” I replied, washing my hands in a bucket of water before beginning to select the freshest onions. “However, I am not totally useless in the kitchen like Mother. You taught me how to cook.”

Father’s eyes lit up with excitement. “Really? That’s great news. I was starting to really worry that I didn’t teach you anything!”

Oh how far from the truth he was, but I did not share that secret with him. Instead, I continued on our current topic of conversation: cooking. “Yes, well by the time I come along, Mother still is not any better at cooking, so you take over that duty lest we eat whatever unfortunate meal Mother has burned to a crisp.”

We both chuckled at that as we began to peel and chop the onions.

“Did you have a favorite meal that we would cook together?” Father asked, sounding genuinely curious about getting to know me better. I suppose I couldn’t blame him, for even though I had shared with him a fraction of what I had gone through in the past five years, I hadn’t really made an effort to become closer with him.

I closed my eyes, conjuring up our tiny little house in the middle of nowhere, filled with the aroma of – “Chicken vegetable pie,” I sighed. “You would always make it for my birthday.” A melancholy smile made its home on my face at the memory of helping Father crimp the edges of the special pie before putting it in the oven. My tiny clumsy fingers would never form the pie crust right, but Father would always insist on having a piece from the side I had done. 

Father’s smile was unburdened by these memories. “Ah, chicken vegetable pie has always been one of my favorites too, though it’s much too hot to make it now,” he mused before passing me some carrots to begin cutting. “Maybe we can make it together in the winter.”

Although I knew that his offer was made in kindness, it still inflamed the hurt in my chest. “Perhaps,” was my half-hearted response as I focused on the carrots being sliced apart under my blade.

After that we worked in silence for a time, the only sounds were our knives against our boards. It would have been soothing, a reenactment of a happier time, if it weren’t for the dark cloud hanging over my head.

Not for the first time, I wondered what Father was thinking. What did he think of me? How did he feel about this young man, roughly the same age as himself, claiming to be his son from the future? If I were him, I would have adopted Mother’s stance of disbelief. But Father did not. He never questioned that I was his son as Mother had done. Perhaps it was because without my hat or glasses, he could see himself in the color of my hair, the curve of my nose, the set of my jaw. Or maybe his acceptance of me stemmed from something deeper, one of the ‘invisible ties’ Chrom and Gyldowen speak of. Whatever his reason, I am honestly profoundly glad that I did not have to prove myself to him, for I never had to before.

Once all the vegetables were prepared, we moved on in the recipe, Father butchering the ducks that Gregor had hunted and I washing the rice to be steamed.

Eventually Father broke our laconism. “So besides cooking, was there anything else we would do together in the future?”

“Well…” I began, grateful for a distraction from my gloomy thoughts, “When I was but a toddler I would assist you in your training.”

Father’s eyebrows slowly lifted in surprise even as a grin slid across his face. “Oh? How so?” he asked.

These were some of my fondest memories. “For one, I would sit on you back and count as you did pushups,” I explained. As a child, I loved the steady rise and fall from sitting on his back, almost as if I were being rocked to sleep. Plus, Father would always thank me for my help and tell me how proud he was of my counting abilities. His words of praise never failed to inspire a warm feeling in my chest.

Father let out a hearty laugh. “That sounds like very good exercise!”

“I do believe it was,” I agreed allowing myself a small chuckle. “Other times when mother would make you run laps so she could study you, you would place me upon your shoulders so I could pretend I was a pegasus flying through the sky.” I remembered stretching out my arms like wings as Father ran around Mother, my waist secure in his large hands. “Now that I think on it, that probably skewed Mother’s data on you, but you never seemed to mind.”

“From the sound of it, we were too busy having fun,” Father snickered as he seasoned the duck to roast over the cooking flames.

“That we were,” I concurred. 

We then conversed amicably as we cooked; I shared stories of our time together in the future and he recounted fond memories of his childhood with his father and brother. Although I had heard many of these stories before, dear diary, it was still pleasant to hear Father narrate them without the heavy shawl of loss weighing down his shoulders, to know that in this timeline my uncle and grandfather were still alive. In fact, so engaging was our conversation that I did not notice how much time had passed until Father plopped the lid on the rice pot to simmer and brushed his hands together.

“Well that’s that!” he stated cheerfully, coming over to prop himself on the table next to me.

“Indeed,” I replied with a small grin as I carefully wiped down the knives. “Now all that is left is for us to wait for everything to cook.” I began to ponder if I had enough time to hurry and erect my tent before we served the meal…

But it seemed that Father had other plans for my evening. “Well thanks for helping me cook, Laurent. It was really nice spending time with you.”

His earnestness made heat flush across my cheeks. “Um, well of course Father,” I cleared my throat, darting my eyes away, “It was my pleasure. And I could not very well have said ‘no’ to Frederick’s assignment now could I?”

It was my awkward attempt at a jape, but my words had the opposite effect on the man. Father deflated slightly and sighed. “About that,” he began in a soft tone, “I have something to confess. It wasn’t Frederick’s idea to put us both on cooking duty, it was mine. When I heard that the cook had been injured, I volunteered the two of us to take her place for the night.”

Well this was an unexpected development. I did not know how to react to Father’s admission of guilt. I reasoned that I should at least be frustrated that he had volunteered me without my permission, adding more work on top of an already tiresome day, but I felt no such disgruntlement. To be completely honest with you dear diary, I could not identify the feelings swirling within me.

Before I could even to begin to formulate my response, Father continued, “I’m sorry for all the cloak and dagger, it’s just that I never get to see you. I thought that after our last talk we had reached an understanding, but since then it seems like…well, it seems like you’re avoiding me.”

Oh diary, the gentle look of sadness in his eyes ran me though like a sword, and for a moment I couldn’t draw breath. However, it was the truth in his words that dealt the killing blow. He was correct, of course (he had always been exceptionally adept at perceiving other’s feelings, a gift I sadly did not inherit), I had been eluding him for some time now. As much as I wanted to develop my relationship with Father, I simply could not bear being so near to him. Looking at him now, I was reminded of how he lacked the wrinkles around his eyes, the grisly scar across his jaw, the slight greying at his temples. But worst of all, he lacked the _feeling_ of Father: his kind and wise, yet haunted demeanor. The Father in front of me now was too young, too fresh, too superficial. And that fact pained me nearly as much as his death did.

“I – I,” I choked, looking away and desperate to find the correct words, for I had grown weary of lying to him. “I have been avoiding you.”

Father simply whispered, “Why?”

I turned to face him, and the tears welling up in his grey-brown eyes nearly undid me. “Because you are not my true Father – he died when I was young – and that truth is more than I can bear.”

Before Stahl could respond (for I did not wish to see his reaction), I threw away my apron and hastily retreated from the tent. I had no destination in my mind, just an urge to get as far away from that lachrymose conversation. Yet even as I fled, I could feel myself abandoning tiny splinters of my heart in every impression my boots left in the ground.

You, dearest diary, know better than anyone (perhaps even myself) the intricately entangled feelings I have towards my father. I believe they all stem from the convoluted sentiments I hold for Mother, and together they have become so interwoven that they sit like a knot in my breast, and I am unable to extract one single thread without tugging along all the others as well. At the heart of this perplexing web, lies one simple yet bitter truth: I am just as much my father’s son as I am my mother’s. As much as I wish to emulate Mother, I have too much of Father in me to truly achieve that aspiration (and if I am truly being honest, maybe that is a blessing). For example, I inherited his mediocracy which manifested in my lacking innate magical abilities, and yet he also imbued me with a persistent work ethic so that I could reach my goals. This pushed me to reach my current level of spell competency. While Mother taught me how to be a scholar and a mage, Father taught me how to be a person.

And then he died. He was too noble, too loving, too devoted, and he sacrificed his own life for Mother’s and mine. Although we were able to escape physically unharmed, we were never again whole. Father had balanced Mother out, the pathos to her logos, and without him our world was thrown off-kilter. The parts of me that Father had nurtured began to wither, and now after more than a decade and a half since his death, any of those parts that survived lay stunted in my heart. During my five years in the desert, I naively thought that once I joined back up with the Shepherds and reconnected with Father, I could start to heal. But I was wrong. The young man who bears my father’s name in this time was not the man I was looking for and thus my emotional wounds are left untreated.

I do not know how much time had passed while I wrestled with my trauma, struggling to push down the festering feelings that rose like the Risen in my chest. All I do know is that I found myself at the far edge of our camp, dazedly staring at the stars that began peeking through the dusk-painted sky. I sighed, feeling the melancholy settle over me like a shroud. It had been a tiring day and I could already foresee that it would be an exhausting night.

A soft call of “Laurent?” extracted me from my thoughts. I turned and blinked owlishly at Stahl, who stood there holding two bowls of rice. A small smile graced the corners of his mouth, but his eyes betrayed him: suspiciously watery and filled with uncertainty. 

“Yes?” I inquired coolly, and I was impressed that I was able to stay any emotion from leaking into my voice.

My tone caused him to wince, but he did not shy away. Instead he held out one of the bowls tentatively, an offering of peace. “I thought you might be hungry.”

A fresh pang of woe jolted in my chest. Unbidden, my mouth opened, and another bittersweet memory tumbled from my lips. “You always had the ability to discern when I was famished,” I confessed before I could stop myself.

 _‘That’s because you’re my son’_ his eyes seemed to say, but he just shrugged and handed me my meal. I nodded my thanks then returned to staring ahead. Although I was ravenous by that point in the evening, I still could not bring myself to eat.

After a few moments of standing in uncomfortable silence Stahl sighed. “I’m sorry for upsetting you earlier, Laurent. I didn’t mean to bring up anything painful, I just wanted to spend time with you and get to know you better. But I understand…” The choked sound he made in his throat compelled me to look at him directly.

He took a deep breath and started again. “I understand why it is hard for you to be around me. You’re right, I’m not truly the same father you knew growing up but… even though I might not be your father, maybe I could still be your _friend_ ,” he whispered, hope shining in his aqueous eyes.

And that’s what did me in. After nearly fifteen years, tears began to sting the corners of my eyes. The last time I cried was over this man, and it seemed that the first time since would be because of him as well. I hastily extracted my handkerchief from my pocket to dab at the unwelcome wetness assaulting me before trying to find an adequate response.

There were so many feelings that I could have put into words in that moment. I could have shared my sorrow at losing him once and now pushing him away twice. I could have confessed that no, he was still my father no matter what timeline we were in, and that I just wanted to be his good little boy one last time. I could have smothered him with joy at the news that despite my rather uncongenial treatment of him, he still harbored at the least some affection for me.

Instead of all those other – and probably more appropriate – reactions, I strangled out a wavering, “I th-think I would like that.”

I must have said something right, for Father beamed and wrapped me in a tight embrace (and oh how I had missed that). When we finally parted, we both had matching tear tracks down our cheeks and grins on our faces.

Father clapped me on the shoulder one last time before gesturing to my forgotten bowl. “Why don’t you eat up and then we can set up your tent together?” he suggested, which sounded agreeable to me. Before I could tell him so, he added, “I bet your mother has already set up ours and has it filled with her books. You know how she is.” And we both laughed as we made our way back into camp.

When we lose someone, dearest diary, we can never really get them back. No matter how much I wish with my entire being, I will never again be with the man who raised me, my true Father. However, I am singularly fortunate to have the opportunity to build a relationship with this timeline’s version of Father. So even though today had its fair share of trials and unpleasantness, it was still special, for it witnessed the birth of something new. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> Sorry for the long gap between updates. Exploring Laurent's relationship with his dad was one of the things that inspired me to start writing this fanfic so I really wanted to it justice. Hopefully you all are as pleased with the final product as I am! 
> 
> As always, questions, comments, and suggestions are super appreciated! =)
> 
> ~~P.S. Was this a Blue Loins support? Cause it had cooking and family trauma lol~~

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> This is my first fic, so kudos and comments are greatly appreciated =) 
> 
> Come join me over on Tumblr: https://accentswelcome.tumblr.com/


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